


La Cocina De Ladrones

by Rambla



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: M/M, Yes Chef, alternative universe, hospitality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:53:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rambla/pseuds/Rambla
Summary: “Hijo de puta.”Martín murmured the words under his breath.Juan hadn’t shown up again. Fucking bastard. He couldn’t fucking believe it. Well, actually he could. That was maybe the worst part, the real slap in the face. He should’ve known.----------------An AU in which Martín find himself precariously in need of a chef on the same night a mysterious stranger enters his establishment. Fate working its magic no doubt.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 30
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hijo de puta.”
> 
> Martín murmured the words under his breath.
> 
> Juan hadn’t shown up again. Fucking bastard. He couldn’t fucking believe it. Well, actually he could. That was maybe the worst part, the real slap in the face. He should’ve known.

“Hijo de puta.”

Martín murmured the words under his breath.

Juan hadn’t shown up again. Fucking bastard. He couldn’t fucking believe it. Well, actually he could. That was maybe the worst part, the real slap in the face. He should’ve known.

This wasn’t the first time. Not by a long shot. They were probably edging closer to the fiftieth time at this point, if not beyond that. Martín sighed, vowing that this would be the _last_ time.

It wouldn’t be the first last time either, but this would be the first time last time that was, actually, the last time. The straw that broke the camels back as it were. Though it wasn’t a straw, and Martín sure as shit wasn’t a camel, despite how well he carried the weight of this business on his shoulders.

Here he was, the lone businessman/bartender/maitre de, fucking all in one swiss army knife of hospitality, doing his damnedest to make this place work, while his business partner, no, ex-business partner, sniffed away their profits and didn’t even have the decency to turn up and cook the fucking food. Asshole.

Letting out another long slow breath Martín shook his head and turned his attention back to the task at hand. It had a been a long night, a really fucking long night. He’d spent the entirety of it schmoozing customers, giving away cocktails and apologising over and over again that ‘no sorry there was no food tonight, the chef was taken ill at the last minute’ and ‘yes of course I understand the inconvenience, please have a drink on me and i’ll book you in for next week, the menu is worth the wait and I promise you won’t be disappointed’.

Martín Berrote was nothing if not a charmer, he knew how to work a room; how to co-ordinate chaos until it worked in his favour - or as he preferred to say - ‘turn shit to diamonds’. Lately it seemed he spent all of his time remoulding the shit that was Juan’s fucking mess. His colleague had proven time and time again to be a useless business partner and an even worse friend; relying solely on Martín to provide the brains and backbone of the operation.

Because Martín wasn’t useless. No no no. Far from it.

Unlike Juan, Martín gave a fuck and, unlike Juan, Martín was sharp. On the ball. A man who knew the ins and outs of this industry. He knew wine like no-one else in the whole of Buenos Aires, hell the whole of Argentina. He knew numbers and profit margins, heck he was more familiar with them than the back of his own hand, which he’d a been a little too familiar with lately. Jesus christ he needed to get laid.

Martín knew how to deal with tricky customers, flirty customers, even those ‘i’ve had a little too much to drink and thrown up in your front terrace’ customers. Martín knew every angle of this business, bar one. La cocina. The kitchen. This was a domain that Martín knew needed delegation. He couldn’t be in every place at once, as much as he had tried over the last few months, and this one man band act was oh so tiring.

He’d tried to run the whole place to himself initially, thinking he’d have the time to rustle up canapés and light bites while managing the rest of the business and he’d realised very quickly that this was not the path for him. Part of Martín’s expertise was the ability to recognise his strengths and and ask for help when needed. Unfortunately for him, his call for help had been answered by the colossal fuck head that was Juan.

Admittedly, Juan _did_ know his way round the kitchen, Martin had to credit him that, however, his main passions were most definitely cocaine and complaining. Food seemed to be falling lower and lower in the list of priorities as the months drifted on.

Dios mio.

Martín despaired day after day because he had very few other options. Juan had been the best of a bad bunch, which said very little for either Juan or the bunch. Buenos Aires had offered slim pickings in the chef department. Anyone with talent or discipline seemed to fuck off out of Argentina at the very first chance they got, a luxury that Martín himself had not been afforded.

He’d worked his ass off to get where he was now, but he couldn’t afford to let that slip. He needed to keep up with his rent payments or boom, just like that his business would be ciao, and he’d be back on the streets trying to drum up whatever dregs of bar work he could find.

Fuck.

Martín poured himself a glass of Malbec, nothing too fancy, but just pricey enough to reward himself for the relentless pace of the night. He needed to think and red wine always seemed to help.

The first sip had barely graced his lips when who should come barging through the door but Captain Useless himself - Juan.

“Get. Out.”

Martín’s voice was firm, and he held Juan’s gaze. It was very apparent that his partner had been on the marching powder tonight. His face showed a wide glazed expression, a glint of something animalistic flitted across his features. Great. Martín hated dealing with Juan when he was like this, the chef was unpredictable. A loose cannon.

Juan paid no heed to Martín’s words, instead of getting _out_ as instructed he proceeded to get further in. Slowly waltzing towards the bar, his eyes danced around the room, hands twitching nervously.

“Martín, Martín, Martín, surely you have some kinder words for your business partner no?”

The words drawled out of his mouth, making it immediately obvious that he had been drinking as well.

“I wanted to be here tonight truly, truly, mi amigo. But you know what happens, how these things get. The party last night, my god the party. You should have seen the girls Martín. So beautiful. And the drugs Martín, my god, i’ve never seen snow like that in Argentina.”

Juan laughed at his own joke, breathy and high pitched, a hyena on the prowl.

“So Martín,” he continued “look, i’m sure you still had a busy night. People come here for you no? The great Martín Berrote. They love you mi amigo. They don’t care for the food, they want you. They spend their money to be at your place. Yes for sure. For sure. So, I need my share friend. I have a party to get back to, and some girls to satisfy if you know what I mean.”

He cackled again and the sound was really starting to grate on Martín, who said nothing, eyes boring into the inebriated man in front of him.

“Ok so maybe not 50/50, you did the work tonight I admit. But maybe 40/60, even 30/70. I’m feeling generous Martín, I know how hard you work. Too hard my friend. But we are partners no? What’s mine is yours you know. You know I share Martín. If you wanted you could take a turn with this girl too, i’d let you, she’s great. A real fine ass.”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

It came out as a growl, Martín clenched his jaw and fists, full of rage. How fucking dare this man. This prick. This son of a bitch. Coming in here, demanding money.

“Martín, Martín, calm yourself down princess, anger doesn’t look good on you.”

Juan had always been spiteful and Martín had always chosen to ignore it for the good of the business, you know what they say about beggars and choosers. But the sight of the heavy set man in front of him, absorbed by his own facade and looking for money, well, that was quite enough for Martín.

“Look here. You coked up piece of shit.”

That got Juan’s attention.

“I know you’ve been stealing from the till and from the cellar. I’m not a fucking idiot, unlike you, I know how to count. Just because I had the good grace to let that slide, because I thought ‘oh maybe just maybe Juan will show up and do his job for once’, do not for one second think you that can come crawling in here asking for money. You _owe_ me money mother fucker. So now i’m kindly giving you the chance to fuck off to whatever depraved crevice of this city you came out of, before I get really fucking mad. Don’t even dream of showing your face back here again.”

Juan’s eyes darkened. Martín had always been reliable and easy to manipulate and Juan had been sure of leaving with some money tonight. But it looked liked tonight was the night Martín had finally found that back bone of his, pity, because Juan wasn’t leaving without what he wanted. Oh Martín, I guess you want to do this the hard way.

“Now Martín, that’s not very nice. I come here, full of apologies and a party invitation to share with my friend, a lonely faggot who cannot take his head out of his ass long enough to appreciate the finer things in life, and this is how you treat me?”

Juan stepped closer to Martín, a hint of menace about him. The chef stood perhaps a foot higher than the other man, though Martín didn’t intimidate easily he was well aware that Juan had a distinct physical advantage over him.

“You’re going to give me that fucking money,” Juan paused.

“Or i’m going to fucking beat it out of you, you fucking pussy.”

The chef inched closer, eyes daring Martín to test him.

Martín stood firm.

“I’ll say this one more time, asshole. Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

He drew level with Juan, his face coming to close to the other man’s chest.

Juan sneered.

“Make me.”

* * *

A nose for trouble. That’s what Sergio had always said, in that condescending tone of his.

“Andrés you have a nose for trouble and one day, I swear to God, it is going to get you killed,” had been his exact words. Memorable as always.

Andrés had laughed. His younger brother was such a drama queen.

“Hermanito, you confuse yourself, and I beg you do not take the Lord's name in vane. This nose for trouble you speak of, it is nothing more than a sense of adventure. What are trouble and fortune if not two sides to the same coin hmm?”

Sergio had rolled his eyes at him.

“Ah come brother, you must see that life is not all doom and gloom. There is more to this place than what is in books. You must not forget to live outside the pages dear Sergio, heaven forbid, you might even end up having some fun.”

He’d gently mocked his sibling, enjoying his naivety, though at times Andrés did wonder if there wasn’t a little truth in the man’s words.

Andrés had always gravitated towards chaos, there was something wondrously comforting about it. Certainty was a fool’s game that he would have no part of. People wrapped themselves in woollen blankets of fickle assurances, thinking that they could micromanage their lives into some semblance of order. Control. Andrés knew better. Disorder was the foundation of integrity, the father of structure itself. In mayhem and madness was where the universe lay precariously balanced, on a string that could snap into a thousand different scenarios at the drop of a hat. Oh, the world was a place of contradiction and he loved to strut the line of it, where others would turn away he was drawn, magnetised to the truth.

This could be why, perhaps, as he had strolled the barrios of Buenos Aires that night, that, when he had heard shouting and the sound of glass breaking his _first_ instinct had been one of amused curiosity. The dissonant sounds provided a harmony to his thoughts and he thought it his duty to discover their source. Tracing the sounds to what appeared to be a restaurant, Andrés had cast his eye over the situation.

He was greeted with a beautiful mess.

Two men. Fighting. Almost. Practically nose to nose, yet neither had made the first move. Excellent. His timing immaculate as always.

Andrés could see the face of one man through the dim-lit window. He was wearing a black shirt, sleeves rolled messily to the elbow, hair swept carelessly to the right, yet eyes trained focally on the man in front of him. His gaze intrigued Andrés, fire and ice all at once. Smouldering. Andrés could not see the face of the man that this stare was directed at, but that interested him very little. What intrigued him was what he could see that which the other man could not.

For the man in the black shirt, despite all the power that lit his stare, could not see what was held behind his opponent’s back.

Andrés, on the other hand, was privy to some vital details. For example, he could see that though the black shirted man had a weapon, a broken bottle to be exact, (a commendable weapon choice given the setting, mused Andrés), he could also see that the black shirted man was totally unaware that his opponent was far better armed. The taller man, who seemed to be doing all the shouting, was also doing his best to draw attention away from the pistol he had tucked just below his hip, ever so slightly out of view to all but an inquisitive passer by.

Well that just wouldn’t do. As a man of principle Andrés believed in a fair fight, when it suited him of course, and this taller man seemed to be conducting himself in a manner most ungentlemanly. No, this wouldn’t do at all.

The shouting got louder as Andrés moved closer, he could see the black shirted man visibly recoiling at the vulgarities being spewed by the taller man. Faggot. Pussy. Other such phrases that reaffirmed Andrés allegiance to the black shirted man - because Andrés had been instantly won over by the smaller man’s stance, his presence. His passion. All gleaned from a split second insight that Andrés couldn’t fathom the basis of, but that was of no concern to him. He made decisions based on feeling. Instinct. Conducted himself with a moral code that was impossible to decipher by anyone but himself and he liked it that way.

Besides, life was too short to sit on the sidelines and wave as it passed by. Too short indeed.

He pushed through the door, breezily.

“Buenos noches, gentleman, a fine evening for some wine no?”

Andrés sauntered into the room, head held high; his relaxed tone at odds with the alertness in his body. Sharp eyes quickly surveying the scene.

“Fuck off.”

Andrés had expected little more from the vulgar man, but was unexpectedly delighted when the black shirted man spoke.

“Excuse my former partner señor, he is not feeling himself lately and all of his manners seem to have escaped him. Maybe they ran right out of your nose hmm Juan?”

A pointed look at the one with the foul mouth.

“What he means to say, is that we are in the middle of a staff meeting, and would kindly receive your custom when we can give you our full attention. So please do come back tomorrow.”

The black shirted man finished speaking and Andrés decides that he is immediately fond of him.

“Shut the fuck up Martín.”

Ah, so that is his name. Martín.

Andrés speaks again, beginning to enjoy himself now.

“Well you see señor, perdón, señors, I am more than happy for you to finish your friendly chat. In fact I insist that you do, please. After all, good working relations are the foundation of good business are they not? How can I expect fine service if I don’t allow you to follow such staffing procedures. No, please don’t mind me at all, i’ll sit and wait. You won’t even know i’m here.”

Andrés raises both of his hands in a passive gesture, showing a pointed smile to Juan. Willing him to take the bait. Knowing that he will, because wild animals cannot resist such temptation.

Juan snaps around and points the gun at Andrés.

Muy bien. So very predictable.

“Fuck off now before I blow your fucking head off.”

How unimaginative.

Andrés chuckles lightly to himself, receiving a look of wonder from Martín.

“Oh come dear, tut tut, that is no way to treat a potential customer. Honestly Juan, it is no wonder you find yourself in a disciplinary meeting if this is how you conduct yourself.”

Andrés steps closer towards the gun.

Juan holds it steady.

“I’m warning you, i’ll fucking kill you!”

“My my, such awful manners, were you raised by savages?”

With his hands still raised Andrés steps a little closer to Juan, who now places the gun firmly against Andrés’ forehead.

Perfect.

Andrés moved quickly, tilting his head to the right as both hands clasped over the gun. He drives his knee into Juan’s groin twice, twisting the gun in a manner that breaks Juan’s index finger as the gun is ripped away from him in one smooth motion. Andrés takes two steps back as Juan makes a move to lunge for him.

The sound of the trigger being cocked stills the room.

“Take one more step forward and I will not question putting two holes in that pig head of yours. You’ve already kept me from my drink long enough and quite frankly i’m growing tired of your presence.”

Juan stops, shaking slightly.

“In fact give me one good reason why I shouldn’t but a bullet through that empty skull?” Andrés directs the question at Juan who suddenly seems at a loss for words.

Of course. Everyone the same. All bark and no bite.

“No? No words from you now? You surprise me Juan. So talkative earlier. Well, shall we see what your partner, sorry, former partner has to say for you?”

Andrés turns to Martín, their eyes meet and for a second it is just the two of them in the room. Martín feels a jolt of thrill run through his body.

“Do you want to me shoot him?” Andrés asks, with a sincerity that touches Martín’s heart in a way that it has no right to.

“I can’t say that i’d mind, because that would be a lie, and I value honesty in much the same way you seem to value manners. However, it would be an awful shame to make such a mess of this floor so very soon after I have painstakingly mopped it.”

Andrés laughs.

“I can make it a clean shot if that is what you are worried about? I haven’t had a drop to drink today and my aim is very good.”

There’s a devilish glint in his eye that Martín can’t help but mirror. Both men are toying with Juan now and immensely enjoying themselves.

“That would alleviate some of my concerns señor, though I am not much in the mood for dragging this slob's limp body out of here either, it has been a long day you see.”

“I understand of course. A clean shot through the knee perhaps? He can walk himself home then?”

Martín laughs.

“My you are quite the problem solver.”

Juan is begging now, on his knees.

“Please please, no, please!”

Andrés turns his eyes back to the man cowering before him.

“My my Juan, I didn’t know your mouth knew such words. What was it I heard as I passed? Faggot? Pussy? Such vulgarity.”

Andrés turns to Martín again.

“If you like I can shoot him after a drink, my aim will be worse, but that might improve his manners. What do you think Juan? Maybe one through shoulder, or maybe the chest. Depending on the drink, I can never tell where a bullet will end up. But thats part of the fun is it not? Variety being the spice of life.”

Juan looks terrified.

“No. Don’t shoot me. I’m sorry, i’m sorry. Martín please I am sorry. I’ll go. I’ll never come back. Please amigo. Por favor. Let me go. Please. Please.”

Andrés looks to Martín, who gives him a nod. He nods in return.

“Your are lucky to have such a forgiving boss Juan, lucky indeed.” Andrés gives Juan a sharp kick to the ribs as the chef scurries to his feet, running out the door.

* * *

Juan can’t help but chance a look behind him as he leaves, expecting the gun to still be pointed in his direction. Yet the man who disarmed him has now bestowed all of his attention upon Martín. Fucking bastard, he wants to yell. He doesn’t though. Juan may have made some incredibly stupid decisions in his life but he’s not a complete fucking moron; he’s smart enough to know that he was lucky to leave with his life tonight, very much aware that the man he just came into contact with would not have hesitated had Martín told him to pull the trigger. He shudders at the thought, picking up his pace a little.

The further Juan moved from the scene the calmer he felt, though he attributed part of this calmness to the powdered compadre that he’d kept in his wallet, ever faithful. His head cleared a little and his was gripped with an unexpected gratitude to be alive. Fuck the money anyway. He’d return to his party. To the ladies. They wouldn’t be too happy that he didn’t have any cash, but what else was new, women always had something to complain about aye?

He grew bolder and thoughtful as he walked the streets. He could’ve taken out the stranger if he’d wanted to. One quick shot. Boom. Then he’d turn and finish Martín, no problem. That would’ve wiped that fucking look off their faces. What was that all about anyway? He was certain they’d never met, yet all of sudden they’re going back and forth like Batman and fucking Robin. Assholes.

Juan could picture Martín as Robin, a fag in tights.

He snorts to himself.

* * *

“Do you have a wine list? I think i’ve earned a glass no?”

If Martín is surprised that this is the stranger's first remark, he doesn’t show it. In fact, Martín is quite agreeable to this man’s priorities, and even more agreeable to the rest of him truth be told. Dressed in a grey suit, ivory collar poking mischievously out the top, this man exuded a striking calmness that both soothed and excited Martín. What an evening this had turned out to be.

“Si, claro,” Martín picks up the wine list and then puts it back down again.

“But please, allow me to choose - it is the least I can do for such a loyal customer.”

Martín’s eyes twinkle as he playfully bows to the man, who smiles graciously in return.

“A bold move amigo, considering I still have the gun, and that I am decidedly parched. That gives you quite an incentive to make the right choice no?”

Martín laughs. He likes this man.

“Señor, I respect the gun in your hands, for I would be a fool not to. But I am afraid it is no match for my knowledge in wine - and I would bet my life on that”.

Martín finishes with a wink. The man chuckles in response.

“Well lets hope that won’t be necessary.”

The man takes a seat at the bar while Martín busies himself choosing wine. His heart is racing and he isn’t entirely sure if the adrenaline coursing through his system has more to do with the fact that he could’ve just been shot and robbed - quite possibly - or down to the fact that this elegant stranger, the picture of tall dark and handsome he might add, is now awaiting his expert opinion. Martín could never resist an opportunity to show off his skills, especially to an audience as handsome as this.

You see Martín had a talent for reading people, he could take one look at a person and pair them with a drink. He could sense a mood from across the room, and pick out the exact beverage that any particular moment called for; it was a desirable trait in an industry such as this, and a favourable party trick that went down a treat with most customers, especially those at bridal parties. Oh how those women loved to be told what cocktails they were, though Martín had a strong suspicion that the man in front of him would not be best pleased to be served a porn star martini.

He allowed himself a laugh at the thought.

No this man was one of a far more refined taste. A sophisticated palette he imagined; serious put also playful, a perfect blend of each with a sharp crisp finish. Martín scanned the wine rack for the bottle he was looking for.

He uncorked the bottle with impressive finesse, and poured two glasses. He placed one glass in front of the man, gesturing for him to drink, awaiting his approval.

It was one of Martín’s favourites; Sierra Cantabria Magico. A delightful Spanish wine, Rioja to be precise. The wine wasn’t cheap, yet neither was it ostentatiously overpriced. A full-bodied, bright coloured selection with intensely dark undertones. Befitting.

The man took his time, swirling the wine and breathing it in. Martín smiled, he’d always appreciated a man who knew how to appreciate wine.

He awaited the stranger’s response.

Taking a sip the man’s face registered pleasant surprise and Martín beamed, proud of himself.

“Ah, an excellent wine - from my home country nonetheless.”

The man drinks again.

“Well, I have to say I am impressed. You did not disappoint.”

“What can I say, I have a gift. Will my talents spare me the wrath of your bullets?”

Martín simpers, placing his hand on his heart. The damsel in distress.

This elicits another light chuckle from the mysterious Spaniard. Martín has never heard a laugh quite like it, but he thinks it might be his new favourite sound.

“I could not possibly shoot a man with such exquisite taste.”

Martín smiles.

“And for that I am eternally grateful. Though I am indeed a man of exquisite taste, please feel free to call me Martín, it rolls off the tongue a little easier wouldn’t you say?”

Martín raises his eyebrows suggestively and is met with an amused look.

“Martín?”

The man deliberately draws out the word, showing off just how well it does indeed roll from his tongue. Martín gulps.

“Si, at your service.”

Martín mock curtsies, clearly in his element; the hostess with the mostest - he loves to play this role and enjoys it all the more in this mans company.

“I am Andrés.”

Their eyes meet.

“And it seems you have already made the most of my service.”

* * *

The two men share the bottle, and then another. Falling into such an easy chatter that the night begins to slip away with little notice from either of them. The door is locked, but if anyone were to pass by, no longer would they hear shouts, or the shattering of glass. They would hear the voice of an animated story-teller, holding his audience captive; grandiose tales of world exploration and travel, dotted with poetic phrases, old romanticisms, and as Martín would put it, ‘pretentious waffle’.

There was much laughter on both parts. A mutual intrigue held by each man; it should seem strange how easily they have slipped into these roles, both fitting them so well, a perfect match in many ways.

“So that’s where you learned how to do that!”

Martín’s voice interrupts Andrés tale - he’d been regaling him with anecdotes from his time spent in Israel.

“I have picked up some skills on my travels, por supuesto, and you are correct. That particular gun disarm is favoured by the Israeli militia, who are all well versed in Krav Maga.”

Martín nods.

“But it also helps that I am good with my hands.”

Andrés tone is anything but innocent as his eyes silently challenge Martín.

They have been like this all night. The back and forth so overly familiar that the smattering of flirtatious remarks don’t seem even a touch out of place.

Martín chokes a little on his drink. He is fairly certain that his newfound drinking companion is straight, but that doesn’t seem to stop him matching Martín’s suggestive manner with his own. Andrés smirks at Martín’s response, obviously enjoying himself.

“Now, Martín, I have been talking for far too long, and I am yet to learn who our delightful companion from earlier was? The exceptional Juan. Tell me, why he was thinking of blowing that pretty little head from your shoulders?”

Martín does his best to ignore the giddy feeling at being called pretty by his new friend, without much success. He focuses on telling Andrés his story, the condensed version. How he has spent his whole life working hard, building up his name in this city. Long nights and early mornings, teaching himself business and the art of hospitality, learning how to network and charm customers. That it was his best hope of building a better life for himself. He doesn’t mention his childhood, the horrors of his upbringing, and Andrés doesn’t probe him on it, for which he is grateful.

The suited man dutifully listens to Martín’s every word, growing visibly agitated when he learns that Juan had been stealing money from the business.

“Hijo de puta. Stealing from his partner. If i’d have known that i’d have shot him.”

“Yes and then we’d be busy trying to get rid of a dead body instead of enjoying a fine bottle of wine,” Martín teased.

“And a fine bottle of wine it was.”

Andrés nods to the now empty bottle.

“Another for the mysterious gentleman? I feel I owe you more than wine.”

“No. Gracias.”

Andrés shakes his head, checking the clock on the back wall.

“I have some other business I must attend to, it is getting so late that it is almost early.”

Martín has no idea what business this man can be attending to at this hour but feels strangely discomfited by the thought of him leaving.

“Oh. Of course, I did not mean to cause such an interruption to your evening.”

Martín casts his eyes to the floor.

“A welcome distraction I can assure you, it has been quite some time since I have enjoyed myself like this.”

Martín eyes flick back up to Andrés.

“But I really cannot miss my appointment tonight.”

Andrés is picking up his jacket and Martín is at a loss for what to say when the Spaniard turns to him.

“It seems to me Martín, that you may be in need of some help. A pair of hands in the kitchen yes?”

Martín nods, he had been starting to wonder himself what the fuck he was going to do about that issue.

“Then perhaps you have not made the most of all of my service just yet,” says Andrés with a dark lit smile.

“You can cook?”

Martín asks though in truth he doesn’t care. Partially because he will take any help he can get, but mostly because he is very much keen on the idea of seeing Andrés again, especially in chef whites.

“I told you, i’m good with my hands.”

“Well, you certainly made light work of my last chef.”

They both look to the space in the room where Juan had been on his knees only a few hours earlier.

“Ah yes. Juan. Well, then I consider myself obliged to assist you Martín. I will by come tomorrow, we can discuss it then.”

Andrés forward nature is something Martín relishes in, the confidence the other man emits brings out a side to him that had been retreating these past few months.

“I will be open from eight.”

“Very well. A pleasure Martín.”

He tilts his hat towards his newfound friend.

“Until tomorrow.”

The suited man casts one last smile at Martín before striding purposefully out of the door.

Martín slumps back into his chair, mulling over his glass of wine with a pleased look on his face.

Until tomorrow it is.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín Berrote was not a morning person.
> 
> He never had been and he never would be. As far as Martín was concerned the morning was a necessary evil; a consequence of night that he’d really rather skip for just a few extra hours in bed. Of course, these extra hours were always just out of reach. Forever snatched away by shrieking alarms and that wretched sun light creeping through the blinds.
> 
> Bastardo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind comments previous chapter. This one took a little longer than expected, and has been revised about a million times. I think i'm finally happy enough with it to let is loose in the world. Hope you enjoy reading it as much I did writing it.

Martín Berrote was not a morning person.

He never had been and he never would be. As far as Martín was concerned the morning was a necessary evil; a consequence of night that he’d really rather skip for just a few extra hours in bed. Of course, these extra hours were always just out of reach. Forever snatched away by shrieking alarms and that wretched sun light creeping through the blinds.

Bastardo.

Martín considered himself a creature of the night, he found the moon to be a far better drinking companion than the sun could ever hope to be. The Argentinian’s torrid affair with darkness often meant he’d be greeting his bed just as morning slipped into view - a price he was willing to pay. Buenos Aires came alive under the cover of a starry sky and Martín could not resist the city’s charm.

Music would spill out from the clubs, flooding the streets with sound. Everywhere you looked there’d be seas of people; drunk on spirits and high on life, moving as though they were one. Bright lights and paint splashed buildings gave sensual shades to even the glibbest of faces, breathing life into the air.

It was electric; something magnificent to behold and spectacular to feel a part of. This was the revolution of the soul. The meaning behind it all. True living. La vida de la fiesta! The party that would never end!

Well, until 5 AM.

Then it was the bleary eyed stumble along quietening streets, footsteps already aggravating a premature headache. The swaying on tip toes outside the front door, while keys once again evaded the lock - dropping to the floor in defiance. A short staggered lurch across the threshold to be greeted by an empty flat. Uncomfortable silence that hammered ringing ears. Carelessly lumbering up the stairs, eyes desperately trying to stop the walls from spinning. Voices internally debating if that extra bottle of whiskey was really necessary. Fuck it, too late now.

And then - the piece de resistance; a beautiful, 10 out of 10, swan dive into the middle of the mattress; executed with the graceful expertise of a gold medallist olympiad.

Perfect.

Bliss.

Asombroso.

What the fuck is that noise!? Que Pasa?!

Ayyyy no! Too early!

Putaaaaaaa.

Mierda!

Cállate.

Vale. Ok. Ok. Ok. I’m getting up. Pendejo.

This, or thereabouts, was an accurate depiction of Martín’s usual routine. Tried and tested, hospitality 101.

On this particular morning however, the day started very differently.

Martín did not awake cursing the sun. Nor did he try and wrestle the covers over his head in an attempt to shield his eyes from the dawn. No, not today.

Today, the alarm buzzed and it was met with a gentle tap on the head, petting it softly off. A far cry from the usual assault that the snooze button faced.

Martín took a deep breath, stretched his arms above his head and rolled out of bed. He was tired yes, but he found the sensation almost pleasant. An odd notion indeed. He half shuffled half danced to the bathroom, humming all the way. Splashing water on his face he looked in the mirror and grinned.

* * *

It was seven o’ clock now, and though La Cabrera officially opened its doors at eight, Martín didn’t expect any customers until mid morning at the earliest. Sunday was usually quiet, anyone with sense would be at home nursing a hangover from the night before. Who in their right mind would get up at this time if they didn’t have to?

Martín knew of at least one person, though he considered ‘right mind’ an overly generous description of Alberto Sanchez. The man arrived at six past seven on the dot every Sunday, without fail.

Martín opened the door with impeccable timing.

“Buenos dias Señor Sanchez”

“Martín how many times must I tell you! Call me Alberto por favor” admonished the old man, though both he and Martín knew that he loved to be addressed as Señor.

He’d been Señor Sanchez to Martín since the day they had first met, all those years ago.

_It had been sweltering, hot even by Argentina’s standards as the peak of summer reached its climax. The sun had beat such a relentless heat into the tower blocks of Barrio Norte that you could smell the brick work baking. Martín had spent his sixth birthday outside, edged against the wall of the high-rise, feet splayed out on the pavement._

_Four floors up he could still hear the low level boom of his father’s voice; it was muffled by the hot air but forceful nonetheless. Unable to shade himself from the sun’s brutal rays Martín wondered how much longer he’d have to be out here. The initial tears had long since dried on his rosy red cheeks and he was beginning to get restless. His mother usually fetched him once his father passed out, but with the lift broken she’d never make it down the stairs. He knew he’d have to wait. The thought filled him with dread._

_“You there, niño, why so sad?”_

_The question came from a man who looked a little older than Martín’s father, though his face held a kindness that Señor Berrote’s did not. Martín looked up, not quite daring to make eye contact with the stranger._

_“Me?” the boy pointed to himself, tentatively checking either side of him._

_“Si you, there is no-one else out here. Too hot to be out here today. Why in heavens name are you out here boy?”_

_The man was wearing a bright floral shirt, and had a beige fedora planted firmly on his head; when he spoke little bits of spit flicked out from beneath a thick black moustache._

_“I have to wait until they finish.”_

_Martín dropped his gaze to the pavement while the man cast a knowing look up towards the raised voices._

_“I see.”_

_They lapsed into a short silence before the older man impatiently interjected._

_“Well aren’t you going to ask why i’m here? It’s polite to return a question with a question you know. It shows interest and manners.”_

_“S-s-sorry”_

_Martín blushed, tucking his chin to his chest._

_“Too many s’s boy, you’re not a snake. Enough of the sorry, it’s Señor Sanchez if you want to put those s’s to use”_

_“Señor Sanchez?”_

_Martín’s voice wavered less this time._

_“Si, that’s my name. Señor Sanchez of Sabor de Sanchez, Ice Cream vendor extraordinaire ”_

_The man gestured with a spectacular flourish at, what was essentially, a freezer on wheels._

_“And you, what is your name niño?”_

_“Martín”_

_“Martín si? Well it is your lucky day Martín. As my very first customer you can choose any ice cream that you like.”_

_Martín’s eyes lit up and then his face fell once more._

_“I’m sorry Señor Sanchez but I don’t have any money.”_

_“Hmmmm a tricky position my dear boy.”_

_Señor Sanchez paused in consideration._

_“I’ll tell you what Martín, if you help me sell ice cream today, I will pay you not only in all the ice cream you can eat, but, also in peso’s. How does that sound?”_

_The boy’s eyes sparkled and he nodded vigorously, already jumping to his feet._

_“Now I warn you, this is hard work. We will walk until the last ice cream is sold. We cannot have any boy, girl, man or women left in this city who has not tasted the delights of Señor Sanchez.”_

_“I’ll keep up, I promise”_

_“That’s the spirit. Well vamonos, this ice cream won’t sell itself”_

And just like that Martín had landed his first job and made a friend for life.

That had been some 22 years ago now. Much had changed since then, though some things still remained the same.

“Martín you look different, you are practically glowing today. Normally you look like a bag of shit at this time. Que pasa? Did you finally get laid last night?”

Martín had to laugh at the older man, as straight to the point as ever. Señor Sanchez had never been one to mince words.

“A bag of shit? You flatter me. Whoever said charm is dead has clearly yet to be wooed by you Señor”

“So did you get laid?” the older man presses on, as tactful as ever.

“Sex isn’t the only reason to be in a good mood Alberto”

Martín knows his 19 year old self would disagree vehemently with that statement. Oh how work has changed him.

“Spoken like someone who isn’t getting laid. Por qué Martín? You need to get out there, you’re not getting any younger”

“Says the old man! I have a business to run and bills to pay, being bent over the bar is not the highest item on my agenda right now”

An image of Andrés flashes into Martíns head. He takes a long gulp on his machiato, forcing his brain to behave itself.

“Bullshit. There’s enough time to fuck and make money.”

“You sound like a pimp.”

“I could pimp you out if you wanted Martín. I know some very attractive younger men, just your cup of coffee. I’m sure they’d bend you over more than just the bar”

Alberto winked suggestively.

“Dios mio Alberto, too much below the belt chat this early in the day. Has your satellite TV stopped getting those extra channels? Or did someone slip a blue pill in your margarita last night? You’re too old to be exciting yourself this much amigo”

Martín placed Alberto’s latte in front of him.

“Ok fine, we can discuss your lacklustre love life some other time. Now tell me nieto, why do you look like the cat that got all the cream if you haven’t added another notch to your bedpost hmm?”

Martín gave Alberto a brief rendition of the events of the previous night, still a little shocked from the whole ordeal himself. It felt good to tell someone else about what had happened, it seemed to make it more real somehow; Martín was beginning to worry he’d dreamt the whole thing up.

“That no good piece of shit. Aye Martín I told you Juan was trouble. Do you want me to get Laszlo to pay him a visit?”

“No, gracias Alberto.” Martín replied quickly.

Laszlo was Alberto’s boyfriend. A huge tank of a man who was just as loving as he was lethal. Laszlo was someone you didn’t fuck with. He’d been a part of a notorious Hungarian crime syndicate at one point in time. Or was it the Slovak Mafia? Martín could never remember which, maybe it was both. Either way, Laszlo had proven invaluable to Martín and the bartender felt lucky have him as an ally; but he didn’t want to push his luck. The Argentinian was still very much indebted to the man and daren’t call upon him for further help. Not after last time.

“Anyway, I don’t think Juan will be coming back anytime soon - i’ve never seen that mother fucker move so fast for anything other than sex or drugs.”

Both men laughed at that.

“And what about this man? Andrés you said his name was? Your knight in shining armour no?”

Martín found it easy to picture Andres in a medieval setting, looking elegant atop a horse no doubt.

“Something like that. It could’ve been a lot worse if he hadn’t stepped in.”

The realisation dawns upon Martín.

“Fuck! I knew Juan was an asshole but I didn’t expect things to get that bad you know?”

He ran his hands through his hair, breathing deeply.

“The drugs will do that to a man Martín, you know that more than anyone.”

Silence.

“Anyway, enough of that. Tell me more about this handsome stranger.”

“I didn’t say he was handsome.”

“Oh Martín your face says it all nieto, you are one smitten kitten. He must be good looking to have you smiling like this.”

Martín rolls his eyes.

“He is a new friend Alberto, that is all. Objectively speaking he is attractive, yes, but I don’t need anymore drama in my life right now. I need to figure out how the fuck i’m going to manage this place first and foremost.”

“There’s plenty of time for all that Martín, you must not let a chance at love slip through your fingertips.”

“Jesus Alberto ‘a chance at love’? Can you hear yourself señor? Not every hot straight man I meet is a chance at love, this isn’t the fucking sixties.”

“Ah so he is hot? I knew it!”

Fuck.

“Besides he’s offered to help me in the kitchen, and that is more valuable to me than anything else right now”

“Well I am happy to see you happy Martín, and if it means that Juan is gone then this Andrés character undoubtably has my vote”

“Gracias Alberto, a step in the right direction I hope”

“Oh hope is for women Martín, trust is for men. Things will fall into place, they always do.”

Alberto drained the final dregs of his coffee.

“Well it has been a pleasure as always Martín, i’m glad to see you are still alive. To think, I almost had to find somewhere else open this early on a Sunday. How ever would I manage?”

“Earliness isn’t the issue Alberto, finding someone to tolerate your lewd suggestion is a far taller order.”

“Oh you love it”

“I’m not complaining - and you know you’d never find anyone in Buenos Aires that makes a better coffee than me.”

The bartender winks at the older man.

“Well I can see your ego is still intact. Muy bien.”

“Anyway Martín, I have to go. Lazslo is waiting. He’s in a fantastic mood this morning. Did you hear that the Garcia’s were robbed last night?”

Martín shook his head.

“Si, that painting Carmen wouldn’t shut up about. Stupid bitch. Running her mouth all around town about how much she paid for it, serves her right. Laszlo thinks its hilarious, especially after how that family treated him. Assholes. We’re going to drink champagne and fuck to celebrate”

Martín pulls a face.

“Way too much information señor.”

“Oh Martín don’t be a prude. Ciao.”

And just like that hurricane Alberto vacates the building, leaving Martín chuckling to himself as he commences with the day’s tasks.

* * *

La Cabrera is not what you’d call a modern establishment, though it doesn’t fit the mould of a traditional parrilla either. The building itself is old and sits firmly on the street corner, presenting itself to the neighbourhood. As the only restaurant on the block La Cabrera displays its name with pride in bold white italics.

Inside, there is an almost rustic feel to the place. Dark wooded furniture and stone walls are offset with crisp white table cloths. Scattered ornamental lamps provide a cosy lighting against a backdrop of wine racks. Various trinkets and local memorabilia adorn the walls, giving the place character. It is the bar, however, that is the central focus of the room - the star of the show.

A huge oak counter top that spans the entire back wall and overlooks the dining area - like a king fawning over his subjects. The bar has been hand-carved and the craftsmanship is evident, every etching is perfect in its intricacy. The attention to detail extends beyond the woodwork, La Cabrera is filled with thoughtful touches that keep the customers returning. Plus, the selection of alcohol behind the bar is unparalleled. Martín has spent time refining his collection and the customers love him for it. The shelves are piled high with exotic wines and spirits; some that do not even exist anywhere outside of La Cabrera. Many regulars come just to sit at the bar and pass the time chatting with the barman; drinking quirky combinations and revelling in the ambience.

The bar at La Cabrera is the place to be.

Although, at this moment in time the bar seems to have disappeared. Normally the solid oak surface makes its presence felt across the entire restaurant, but now it seems to have been engulfed. It is almost fully hidden from view by, what appears to be, a fortress of wine boxes.

Stacked at head height, with invoices pinched between each layer, these pillars of vino loom over the room. New bottles of spirits fill the gaps that the towers create while the bartop is brimming with fresh goods. Sacks of coffee beans and crates of milk line up across the whole counter. There are items in every direction, barely space to move. Yet somewhere, amongst this mound of goods, is a busy Argentinian; trying frantically to remember whether he meant to order so much.

The front door opens while the bartender is still mid grapples with the delivery.

“Un momento por favor,” Martín shouts from beneath the bar, quickly piling some boxes out of the way.

“Martín I understand your need for tighter security, but I don’t think this box fort is going to slow down a bullet amigo.”

Martín’s head pops up from the other side of the bar, beaming.

“Box fort? Pshhh. Andrés you insult me. Even your Krav Maga is no match for Martín Berrote’s Castillo de Cartullina.”

He announces it as if he is the ringmaster of a circus; spreading his arms wide so that Andrés may be dazzled by his feat of cardboard engineering.

“Castillo? You’re dreaming.”

Andrés flicks a finger at the invoices.

“A casa de papel at best.”

“Well paper beats rock,” replies Martín matter of factly, poking his tongue out. He briefly wonders if a man as worldly as Andrés even knows what rock paper scissors is. Maybe they play diamond, dollar, bracelet in the upper echelons of society.

“Besides, haven’t you heard that paper is more patient than man?’”

Martín remembered Lazslo telling him that once, it had seemed profound at the time. He’s glad to have retained that bit of information, if only for the impressed look that Andrés gives him.

“Quoting Anne Frank? My my, I didn’t know bartenders could read.”

Their playful banters comes so easily.

“Reading? Lord no, she’s just hiding in here with me.”

Andrés tilts his head back and laughs whole heartedly. Martín glows with pride.

“And you are teaching her the alcoholic’s edition of Jenga I presume? A noble cause.”

“Naturally, we bartenders don’t know any other versions.”

The men share a smile.

“How are you Martín?”

Andrés looks at the man as if inspecting him for damage. Eyes carefully taking in Martín’s fair hair and roguish features, lingering over his lips for a fraction longer than strictly necessary. Curious.

“I’m good thank you Andrés, better than i’ve been in quite some time actually.”

Andrés nods, evidently pleased.

“I take you didn’t have any further visits from Juan last night?”

Although he ask Andrés already knows the answer. Following his appointment the previous night his feet had taken him on a slight detour past La Cabrera. It had eased his mind (more than he would care to admit) to see the lights off and no signs of trouble. Andrés wasn’t used to feeling such stirs of affection so readily, his protective nature was usually reserved for himself and his younger brother; yet something about Martín seemed to inspire it in him.

“No. Nada.”

Martín pauses, searching for his next words.

“Andrés, I want to thank you for what you did last night.”

The Spaniard is already waving off the gratitude as if it were a troublesome fly.

“You thanked me in wine and company Martín, think no more of it.”

Andrés means it too. Martín’s presence and reverent attention had been a welcome addition to his evening. The man was far more stimulating than any of his ex-wives, and perhaps just as flirtatious.

“Think no more of it? How can I not?”

Martín looks directly at Andrés, a flurry of emotions swirling within the depths of his irises.

“I, well, i’ve never really had anyone look out for me like that before. So forgive me, but I won’t forget it anytime soon.”

Andrés nods in quiet understanding, because this is unchartered territory for him too, and he doesn’t quite know what to make of this new bond. Has he ever really had a true friend?

“Ok, so now we’ve clarified that I am eternally indebted to you, what’s next?”

Andrés laughs softly, admiring the Argentinian’s boldness. His new companion was certainly fascinating.

“Well I believe I promised you some culinary assistance. Tell me Martín, have you had breakfast?” he asks, leaning casually on the side of the bar.

Martín’s eyes are instantly drawn to the way Andrés suit clings to him when he moves, accentuating his elegant frame in all the right ways.

The Spaniard catches this wandering eye and chuckles at how openly the other man appears to be checking him out. His total lack of discretion is intriguing.

Martín, having realised he’s been caught, brings his attention back to Andrés face - which is only moderately less distracting.

“Breakfast? Is that the one between coffee and wine? I think I did have that once, a few years back maybe.”

Andrés looks aghast.

“Please tell me you’re not one of those heathens that skips breakfast?”

“It doesn’t tend to feature too highly on my to-do list. Isn’t that why they invented lunch?”

“Invented lunch? Dios mio, this won’t do.”

Martín flinches involuntarily at the choice of words, a memory dashing through his brain.

_This won’t do._

_Please there is nothing else._

_Martín, you disappoint me._

_But it’s all I have._

_We both know that’s not true._

Andrés catches what looks like fear flicker across the bartenders features. He doesn’t understand why it is there but it pulls at his heart in a most curious manner. He continues in a softer tone.

“Besides, how can you hope to build a paper mansion on an empty stomach?”

The gentle teasing is matched with a warm look that draws Martín out of his reverie; far from the snatches of past demons.

“Are you offering to cook?” he sounds surprised.

“Show me the kitchen and i’ll make us breakfast. You may consider it an interview of sorts. We can discuss business after.”

Martín gladly obliges, beckoning Andrés to follow him.

* * *

“So that’s pretty much everything, is this ok?”

Martín wasn’t really sure why he was asking. He’d never felt self conscious about his workplace before. Sure, the kitchen was small but that made everything accessible as far as he was concerned. Admittedly it wasn’t kitted out with the newest gadgets, and it could do with a lick of paint, but he’d covered all the basics. This was Palermo not the fucking Swiss Alps.

“Is this ok?” Andrés mimics him, affecting a slight Argentine accent, “Martín you sound like a shy virgin. I’m not about to throw a hissy fit because you don’t have a sous-vide machine. This is perfectly adequate”

“Perfectly adequate? Just what a man dreams to hear of his life’s work,” Martín simpers sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“Your life’s work is 2 gas stoves, some fridges and a whisk?” Andrés retorts.

“You’re forgetting the rolling pin.”

Andrés raises his eyebrows in amusement before picking up the rolling pin to shoo Martín out of the kitchen.

Martín returns to the bar, happy in the knowledge that he is having breakfast prepared for him. By Andrés nonetheless. Martín isn’t sure if a man has ever cooked for him before.

This pleasant thought is immediately interrupted by a less pleasant one.

What if Andrés can’t cook?

Martín widens his eyes in alarm before he calms himself. Of course he can cook, he wouldn’t have offered to help if couldn’t cook. Stop being ridiculous Martin. He returns to wiping down the bar.

But, what if he thinks he can cook and has spent his life living in denial? Serving awful food everywhere he goes and leaving a trail of burnt out kitchens in his wake?

No, that would be ludicrous. Martín slaps himself on forehead. His tired brain has always been somewhat of a pessimist.

Tranquilo Martín.

Shit.

What if he only cooks fancy food?

Now Martín really starts to panic. Andrés has fine-dining written all over him whereas the Argentinian’s version of fine dining takes 90 seconds in the microwave and bubbles when its ready.

What if Andrés serves him caviar on a pigs head? Or duck testicles on toast? Martín pulls a face at the thought. Do duck even have testicles? Surely they’d be minuscule if they did. You would need a lot to fill up a piece of toast. Those poor ducks. He liked toast at least. Maybe he could just eat around the duck testicles and be very complimentary of the toast.

My my Andrés what a lovely piece of toast that is. How did you get it to go such a wonderful shade of brown? Yes we must definitely put it on the menu, of course. A whole menu of toast? What a great idea.

* * *

Andrés eye for detail allows him to quickly itemise the contents of the kitchen; from one brief glance into the walk in fridge he could relay its stock verbatim, a useful skill to have in this line of work.

Taking a moment to pause Andrés cast an eye over his new domain. He was not disappointed. The space was ideal for one chef, and though he had not officially trained as a chef (for he had not officially trained as anything) Andrés felt a sense of belonging here.

  
Throughout his travels he’d worked across many establishments, enjoying the anonymity that kitchen life provided. Most employers had little concerns of their staff other than the job being done to a high standard; once a worker was no longer useful they were immediately expendable. This suited Andrés perfectly. If he never showed up to work again then there would be no cause for alarm, after all, his fellow colleagues were just as likely to drop off the face of the planet.

People of the kitchen weren’t all that different from the types you found in prison. Addicts, psychopaths and perfectionists; often embodying all of these traits at once. Andrés wasn’t surprised that these outcasts were drawn to the thrill of the kitchen, a busy service was definitely one way to get an adrenaline fix. There was an undeniable buzz that came from being part of a well-oiled machine that could descend into mayhem at any given slip of a knife. Always straddling the balance between genius and madness.

Andrés loved the pace of the kitchen but it was the art of culinary endeavour that really enamoured him to this work; making ingredients sing in harmony with perfect pairings; or perhaps a deliberate mismatching of partners that enhanced their flavour through contrast. Yes, the scope of creative possibility was endless. Truly infinite.

He loved how everything responded in accordance to its need; how some ingredients craved a soft touch, to have aromas gently coaxed from them; while other foods needed the harsh flame, deliberate scorching, a heavy yet loving hand to evoke the right response. The relationship between a chef and food was that of a painter and his canvas, or a man and his lover even.

There was a delicate balance to be struck between pleasing the diner and challenging the chef. Andrés prided himself on his ability to read a room, to unpick the fabric of a situation and weave it to his advantage.

For example, Martín would perhaps not be as thrilled by the prospect of Foie Gras as say, the customers of a Michelin star restaurant. So Andrés would have to resist the temptation to challenge the Argentinian’s tastebuds in such a way. Perhaps later down the line he’d introduce Martín to some of these finer delicacies, the man surely had never had a chance to experience such wonders. For now though, an opportunity to cook something that they would both enjoy. But what?

The answer came almost instantly, and brought with it a smile. Of course. Pancakes.

Naturally he couldn’t simply present Martín with just pancakes, though he got the impression the blue-eyed man wouldn’t mind.

Nonetheless, he had a standard to uphold and Martín deserved more than some run-of-the-mill pancakes piled on a plate. They needed to be refined, catering for this moment specifically, made with passion and care. They needed to be perfect.

Argentinian’s traditionally used a thin batter as opposed to a thickened American pancake. Andrés decided this delicate crepe would be an excellent foundation to build upon, to use anything else seemed sacrilege. He’d seen some beautiful blood oranges in the fridge that would work marvellously with the dish, bringing freshness with a little sweetness. He’d poach them first though, in a light sugar and cinnamon syrup, maybe a splash of cuantro in there for good measure; he sensed Martín would appreciate that.

But then what to balance the spices? Casan creme was not entirely dissimilar to sour cream and Andrés decided that was his best bet to mellow the sweetness of the orange. If he grated some orange zest through it that should cut through the acidity nicely.

Then something to finish it off. A dash of decadence. Andrés got the distinct impression that Martín had a sweet tooth, perhaps it was that chipped one that appeared whenever the other man smiled.

Andrés focused himself, right something sweet. Something rich, luxurious even. Ah yes, of course, dulche de leche. How could he think of even serving pancakes to an Argentinian without out? A touch of salt in there would bring it all together perfectly. If Martín was a man who skipped breakfast then Andrés needed to make this memorable.

Andrés moved efficiently, gathering ingredients and equipment, slipping into an effortless rhythm of creativity.

* * *

Martín couldn’t believe it, he hadn’t offered Andrés a coffee! He was sure he’d intended to but the thought must’ve gotten lost somewhere between deliveries and poultry genitalia. Berating himself for the slip Martín was on his way to the kitchen, espresso in hand, when Andrés appeared in front of him.

Martín stopped just short of bumping into the chef, their close proximity sending a jolt through his body. Andrés gave him an amused look, doing nothing to increase the distance between them.

There was a lingering pause before Martín clocked the plates of food, his eyes widening in unadulterated delight.

“Fuucckkk, that smells good!”

He took both plates from Andrés, placing them on a table he’d set for their meeting. The same table as the night before. Their table.

Andrés motioned for Martín to tuck in while he sipped on his espresso - of course the other man would correctly guess his preferred coffee.

Martín was literally moaning into his pancakes and Andrés couldn’t deny that he was enjoying the other mans obvious pleasure.

“This is fucking amazing.”

Martín took another mouthful, not waiting to swallow it before moaning again.

“Is that cuantro in there?”

Andrés nodded, registering the effect the other mans moans had on him. Interesting.

“Oh my god this sauce, hijo de puta, it’s like cocaine. We could sell this by the kilo.”

“My keen powers of observation detect that you like the food.”

“Like it? If I could i’d take it the back room and fuck it.”

“Well I can appreciate the compliment, despite the questionable hygiene implications it entails.”

“Seriously though, this is perfect. Shit, I was worried you were going to cook something fancy.”

“Like what?”

“Duck testicles.”

Martín looks a little abashed but Andrés laughter is not mocking.

“I actually have quite the recipe for smoked duck testicles.”

“I think i’d rather smoke them than eat them.”

“A preferable choice to snorting them, I agree.”

Both men laugh before Andrés speaks again.

“I must confess, I was a equally concerned you would serve me something hideous last night.”

“Like what?”

“A porn star Martini”

Andrés practically spits the word.

Martín bellows with laughter.

“I can’t believe you think duck testicles are comparable with porn star Martini’s.”

“I’d trust a duck’s testicles over those of a porn star.”

“Well there’s a sentence I never thought i’d hear over pancakes.” Martín laughs, helping himself to another forkful.

“So, where did you learn to cook?” the Argentinian is curious as to who this man of talents is.

This question was usually Andrés cue to namedrop some of the high end restaurants he’d worked in; to show off his kitchen resume to blow his own trumpet so to speak. Yet the blue eyes opposite him drew out a different response altogether.

“I had to look after my brother when were younger.”

Andrés pauses, unfamiliar with his own honesty. He had a tendency to play his cards close to his chest when it came to talking about his past. Martín’s look of encouragement pushes him to continue.

“I barely knew how to turn the oven on but by the time our mother passed we’d both grown sick of spaghetti hoops and fish fingers.”

Andrés gazes into his coffee while Martín’s eyes are full of sympathy.

“I was truly a terrible cook at the beginning.”

The self-depreciating smile looks out of place on the Spaniards features and Martín has the strongest urge to reach for Andrés hand.

“Sergio was forever complaining that the food was burnt. I can’t say I blame him, my goodness to think how I used to cook,” Andrés winces while a little humour returns to his voice.

“But I got better, I had a very discerning critic to contend with. Boys can be so fussy. In fact I remember the first meal that I cooked which Sergio actually enjoyed.”

“Duck testicles?”

Andrés laugh trickles out of his throat.

“Close. Pancakes.”

Martín feels a warmth spreading through him and smiles broadly. Andrés looks away, a little surprised by himself.

“I’ve never told anyone that. Odd. Are you sure you didn’t lace my coffee with something?”

“Is the coffee supposed to go in before or after the valium?”

——

“So, i’ve tasted your food, I know you can cook. You’ve seen the kitchen. Does the offer of help still stand?”

Martín is nervous and Andrés can tell. He immediately seeks to put the other man at ease.

“I’m a man of my word Martín.”

“I am starting to get a sense of that Andrés. Bueno. I am happy to take the help.”

“Bien.”

“So, how will this work?”

“Well Martín I have been on the move for quite some time and i’ve grown a little tired of it. I am looking for a place to settle for a while, 6 months at least. There’s a lot of interest to me here in Buenos Aires.”

Their eyes meet and Andrés continues.

“I will work together with you, to help you create a vision for La Cabrera that translates onto the plate. You bring so much character to these walls Martín, and the food should be a reflection of that. The food will be a reflection of that.”

Martin is gripped by Andres fierce enthusiasm.

“Our menu will have the people of Palermo queueing at the door, itching for the chance to spend their time and money here.”

Andres places a hand upon his heart as he speaks

“This is to be a project of passion Martín. A labour of love. The chance to create something beautiful.”

The Argentinian is carried away by the vision of Andrés words. He pictures the pair of them in the throngs of a busy service; the restaurant buzzing with energy, a frantic pace, smiling diners and guests giddy with delight. Excitement gnaws at the pit of Martin’s stomach. Surely this is too good to be true? If he has learnt anything in life it is that these things don’t just happen. Not to him. There is a consequence to everything.

“And what do you want in return Andres? I’m afraid I can’t pay much, i’m just about turning a profit at the moment.”

Martín is embarrassed by the subject of money, or his lack of it, especially in the company of someone with such a manner of affluence.

“I have other avenues of finance so to speak, therefore I am happy to take a modest wage if you can provide me with a place to stay.”

Martín thinks of his flat upstairs. It is modest, and an absolute mess. He is sure that it cannot possibly be up to Andrés standards. There is no way the other man would want to live there. His doubts riddle him but the desire to be in this man’s company spurs him to take a chance.

“I have a spare room in my flat upstairs. It is hardly The Ritz but it is liveable. Close to work at the least.”

“If it has a bed and a window it will do just fine.”

“Well if that’s all your looking for than there are many delightful prisons within the area.”

Martin jokes and there is a slight silence. He curses his habit of cracking jokes when he’s nervous, fearing his has overstepped the mark.

Andrés bark of laughter alleviates his concern.

“An interesting suggestion. However, that is not an accommodation I wish to sample again - least of all in your fine country amigo.”

Andrés looks for any hint of judgement in the Argentinian’s features.

Martín’s eyes reveal nothing but intrigue so Andrés presses him further.

“Does it bother you, that i’ve been to prison? I am to understand that perhaps it is not the most desirable attribute in a potential flatmate.”

“Honestly? No. Some of the best people i’ve known have been to prison, while some of the worst people i’ve ever met never have and never will. Life is not as straight forward as our systems would have you believe.”

Andrés nods, it is a good answer.

“And now you can’t complain about the bars on the window or the communal shower.”

“Why do I get the sense that you would be the first to drop the soap?”

Andrés doesn’t mean the comment to probe at Martín’s sexuality, but he notices how the off the cuff remark unsettles the other man.

“Would that be a problem?” Martín’s response is anxious, clearly this has been an issue in the past.

“Your clumsiness? Well yes I imagine dropping things might make your job a little difficult.”

Martín smiles a little.

“As for anything else? Martín make no apologies for who you are. Anyone who would care to cast judgement on such a triviality as that is not worth but a moment of your time. I would abhor to be a man of such baseless vapidity, so please do not mistake me for one.”

The relief on the bartenders face is vivid.

“Besides, it seems it is I who has been the more forward one no?”

“Making me breakfast and now you’re moving in. Si, don’t you think we’re moving a little fast?” Martín joked.

“From the man who wanted to make love to the pancakes within 10 seconds of meeting them?”

“Touche.”

“I can seek accommodation elsewhere if it is a problem.”

“No, of course you can stay. If i’m honest I could do with the company, my scintillating conversational skills are wasted on customers”

“I’m sure they are.”

There was that flirtatious edge again.

“So Martín, we have an agreement?” Andrés hold outs his hand.

Martín laughs at the gesture.

“You Europeans are so formal.”

He takes Andrés hand and pulls him into a hug, squeezing him tightly. Andrés is initially surprised by the ready display of affection but quickly relaxes into the short embrace. He can’t help but notice how well they fit together, Martín’s chin coming to rest perfectly within the crook of his shoulder.

Martín pulls away and fixes him with a warm look.

“Andrés welcome to La Cabrera and welcome to Palermo. I am happy to have you here. Please accept me as your gracious host,” he exaggerates a bow.

“Gracias Martín for your hospitality. I have a few loose ends to tie up, but I will bring my belongings tonight.”

“Bien. If you like I can give you a proper tour of the city. None of that tourist bullshit.”

“I would like that very much. I explored a little last night. Uptown mostly.”

There’s a twinkle in his eye which intrigues Martín.

"Uptown? Even those neighbourhoods can be a little rough once the sun goes down."

“Yes, there was all manner of suspicious characters about. Such beautiful house though.”

Andrés michevious demeanour is infectious, though Martín feels like there is a joke he is missing.

* * *

“Mierde.”

Martín’s legs seem to run away from him as he crashes into the sofa that Andrés is slumped across. The wine glasses in his hand slosh wildly but Martín’s firm grasp and quick responses ensure that not a drop of wine is spilled.

“I can’t decide if that was tragic or impressive.”

Andrés takes both glasses from his tipsy compadre, while noticing that his own words are a little slurred.

“It’s remarkable how often those two traits coincide,” retorts Martin.

“Did you just quote Pirates Of The Caribbean?”

“You’ve seen Pirates Of The Caribbean!?”

“Yes.”

“The film?”

“Yes.”

“Not some operatic rendition performed in latin?”

“No.”

“Wow. I did not have you down as the popcorn and blockbuster type.”

“Popped corn?” Andrés shudders.

“I said I saw the film, I didn’t say I had a lobotomy. One of my ex-wives dragged me to see it if you must know.”

Martín nods in understanding, that definitely made a lot more sense.

“Which number was that?”

“I’m not going to refer to my ex-wives by number, show some class Martín.”

“It was number three wasn’t it?”

“Very astute. That was indeed Carlotta.” Andrés relents.

“I can’t believe you’ve been married enough times that an ex-wife of yours might not even make it into your top three spouses.”

“It’s not the olympics Martín. I don’t hand out medals with each divorce.”

“Well of course not, what incentive would there be to stay married if you did that?”

Andrés can’t help but laugh, he is having a wonderful evening. He can barely remember the last time he had been so relaxed.

“But if you were to hand out medals.” continued Martín.

“Which I wouldn’t.”

“But if you did..”

“I never would.”

“Where would number three rank in the long line of predecessors?”

Andrés fixes Martín with a firm glare that has absolutely no effect on the other man.

“Fine. Carlotta probably would’ve made the podium, she knew how to dance at least.”

“You mean you married a women who couldn’t dance?”

“My second marriage.”

“Marianna?”

Andrés appreciated Martín’s attention to detail, he supposed the man's engineering degree hadn’t gone to waste in many ways. His astutness matched Andrés own.

“Si. She refused to dance even at our wedding. I should’ve heeded that as a warning.”

Martín mockingly gasps.

“And how could anyone refuse to dance with you?” his eyes linger over Andrés amused features. The other man clearly having no issue with his suggestive manner.

“Quite.”

Andrés raises the glass to his lips while Martín fixes him with a stare.

“I can dance you know.”

The wine has relaxed them both and Andrés finds the other mans forwardness refreshing.

“You’ve insisted upon that at least three times tonight, though i’ve seen no evidence of it. I thought you wanted to show me the city?”

“I thought you might appreciate a night to settle in,” Martín pouted and Andrés couldn’t help but find it somewhat endearing.

“Well I have settled into this glass of wine very nicely,” Andrés giggles and Martín swears his heart melts just a little.

“And the sofa.”

Both men are giggling now, like a pair of teenagers at a sleepover.

“But I want to dance.”

“We can go out if you want,” suggests Martín, though he’d much rather have Andrés to himself.

“Did I say I wanted to go out?”

“No, but you said-"

Andres cuts the other man off.

“I have all the company I seek here Martín, and very little interest in garnering another ex-wife quite so soon.”

“Ah-ha! So you are asking for music?” Martín’s eyes sparkled as he moved to his record collection.

“That I can accommodate.”

Within seconds the opening saxophone to Men At Work’s _Who Can It Be Now?_ was blaring through the apartment.

Martín was already on his feet, moving his hips in time to the music. He waggles his finger, beckoning Andrés from the sofa, secretly thrilled at how little encouragement it takes to get the other man on his feet.

Their movement was loose, alcohol relaxing their muscles. Rhythm was apparent in both dancers, their contrasting styles seeming to compliment each other perfectly. They danced around each other before Andrés casually takes Martín’s hand, pulling him a little closer.

Martín allowed himself to be lead as the pair moved in time around the living room, bumping into stray furniture, laughing all the way. Martín could not keep his eyes from Andrés smiling face, enjoying the gracious sway of the spaniards hips.

Andrés had little desire to look anywhere but at the Argentinian. The fond gaze holds no trace of discomfort , and speaks of a trust that has already began to manifest between the pair. Their connection undeniable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Martìn! For the love of God, just give him that thirty year old single malt you’ve been eyeballing for the past hour and be done with it.”
> 
> Andrés words break whatever spell the Argentinian is under as he blinks himself back into the room. 
> 
> “Mierda, you know how much I hate it when you read my mind!” 
> 
> They both know this to be untrue; in the last four months the pair have spent practically every waking minute together and their communication levels were verging on near telepathy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of drama in this one. Could quite possibly be two chapters but I couldn't bring myself to fully split it, so it's just rather bloody long. Excuse any mistakes, I was determined to finish this today as it has been slowly driving me mad and there's only so many re-writes a piece can take. I hope you enjoy it in all its semi-refined glory.

“Martìn! For the love of God, just give him that thirty year old single malt you’ve been eyeballing for the past hour and be done with it.”

Andrés words break whatever spell the Argentinian is under as he blinks himself back into the room. 

“Mierda, you know how much I hate it when you read my mind!” 

They both know this to be untrue; in the last four months the pair have spent practically every waking minute together and their communication levels were verging on near telepathy. 

Andrés only had to think about coffee and Martìn would appear in front of him, armed with a perfectly poured espresso and a knowing smile - timing impeccable as ever. There’d be times when Martìn was inundated with orders at the bar, wishing he had more than two limbs as he tried to juggle the tasks of simultaneously managing food and drinks, all the while keeping a smile on his face. Then suddenly Andrés would be beside him, apron on and running drinks orders to tables, collecting glasses and schmoozing customers. Or in the kitchen, Andrés would be growing frustrated as he attempted to perfect his crema catalana, whisking up batch after batch, curse words spilling from his lips while the flavours misbehaved over and over again. He’d be just about ready to burn the whole place down when Martìn would materialise as if by magic, to deliver a scathing anecdote about a particularly irritating customer. Martìn could be venomously articulate and Andrés couldn’t fault the man’s wicked sense of humour, it never ceased to make him laugh.This distraction never failed to work wonders on Andrés, he always found on returning to his desserts that the recipe would practically finish writing itself.

Why, just tonight Martìn had been enduring a particularly long and slow clear down, where wiping tables and stacking tables seemed the hardest thing in the world. Andrés had emerged from kitchen, turned up the music and invited Martìn to dance with him. They’d moved about the restaurant, outdoing each other with ridiculous dance moves as they’d cleaned. The job had suddenly become a joy and they’d finished in no time. It is often as if they are moving to a song that only they know; so in sync with each others thoughts and moods that even the subtlest look could tell one man the entire contents of the other’s mind. 

Martìn picks up the bottle of whiskey, shakes his head and puts it back down again. He has done this three times already today. 

“I can’t just give him that.” 

His disparaging tone is loaded with an irritation that perplexes Andrés.

“Por que no? What is wrong with that?” 

Andrés copies Martìn’s exasperation perfectly, his impression so spot on that the bartender fumbles for a response.

“Well, it’s not much of a gift is it?” 

Andrés raises his eyebrows in feigned shock at this remark.

“Martìn, every time we do stock take you spend at least ten minutes regaling me with that whiskey’s heritage. It is your pride and joy! You cluck like a proud mother hen over the stupendousness of this very bottle on a weekly basis”

“I do not.”

He definitely did. 

Andrés cleared his throat.

“The Glenglassaugh is more than just a whiskey, to call it that would be akin to calling Michalengelo just a painter. This is the amber water of life. It is casked for thirty years, that’s right thirty years, before it can even dream of making it into a bottle. To smell it is bathe your nose in aromas of rich coffee and subtle citrus, intoxicatingly divine; while the taste, oh the taste, it teleports you to the coasts of the Scottish Highlands themselves. The Scots know their flavours, this is all strong dark chocolate and ginger, I can practically sense the rugged mountains and expansive lakes. It is bold and beautiful, a monstrous delicacy. That isn’t even to mention the teardrop decanter it comes in, which is genius in itself.”

Andrés concluded his recital, brown eyes glinting in pleasure as he catches Martìn’s look of surprise.

“I didn’t know I spoke about it so much.”

“You do.”

“Or that you paid so much attention.” 

Andrés rolls his eyes. Of course he pays attention. He has been able to pay attention to very little but Martìn these past few months. 

“Do you want me to explain what is so significant about the shape of the decanter Martìn? How if God cried whiskey then this is vessel he’d use to catch it?”

“Vale vale, you’ve made your point,” Martìn relents, hands up defensively. 

“So you’ll give him the whiskey?”

Martìn looks unsure and Andrés is at a loss with what to do. He has watched Martìn work himself into a state of sheer panic in the last two weeks. Martìn, the man who could simultaneously pour drinks, tell jokes and tot up bills in his head; the man that danced his way through a busy service without even a hint of anxiety, thriving under pressure. Martìn the genius engineer with the scintillating wit that both amused and fascinated Andrés. This Martìn, was a panicked mess over something as trivial as a birthday present for Laszlo. 

Andrés couldn’t fathom it. He’d tried to help but any gift idea was was met with a huff of exasperation or a look defeat. He’d eventually given up making suggestions after his last recommendation, ‘expertly given fellatio’, had earned him several hours of silent treatment. 

“The whiskey isn’t enough.”

Martìn slumped against the bar, cradling his head in his hands.

Andrés sighed, unable to comprehend Martìn’s level of distress over something as insignificant as a birthday present. He knew frustration would get him nowhere so he tried a different tact, though patience had never been his strong suit. 

“Martìn, Laszlo seems like a man who would be exceptionally grateful to receive any gift from you.”

This wasn’t a lie. Andrés had seen the care Laszlo had for Martìn. It was endearing.

“Surely your beloved Glenglassaugh is more than worthy as a present?”

Andrés stood over the slumped Martìn, placing his hand between his friends shoulder blades as he attempted to soothe the man’s uneven breathing. Taking another deep sigh Martìn looked up at Andrés, the pain of disappointment visibly written across his features.

“He has done so much for me, it just seems such an insignificant gesture in comparison.” 

Martìn pauses and Andrés waits for him to go on.

“I owe that man more than I could ever repay.”

“That sounds like quite the debt.”

Andrés treads carefully, sensing Martìn is uncomfortable. 

“It’s a long story.” 

“We’ve got time no?”

Andrés was right, of course. They had completed their stock take and La Cabrera was shut tomorrow in honour of Laszlo’s birthday. If ever there was a time now would be it.

“Unless you don’t want to tell me?”

The men knew each other so well in some ways; they could read and sense things in each other that went well beyond four months of acquaintance. Yet, there were huge lapses in knowledge between the pair. After all, four months was not a long enough time to hear a life’s history. 

It wasn’t just that though, between the overly familiar touches and playful jabs there was the gentlest reluctance. Both men holding back, if only a fraction. Feet on the edge of the water, still gauging the temperature. 

Andrés had the distinct impression that Martìn’s childhood had been far from happy, the man was prone to occasional shifts in mood that could fester for days. There were topics that Andrés knew to avoid, yet so much that he still wished to know. Martìn’s obvious passion and talent for engineering had been a revelation to Andrés, yet the other man always held a distinct look of sadness whenever he mentioned his degree. Andrés couldn’t for the life of him understand why Martìn had ended up in this industry when the man’s brain was clearly bursting with design and ingenuity. Andrés had raised the question once and it had put Martìn in such a foul mood that he had decided to the let subject go indefinitely. If anything that only added to Andrés intrigue, he desired to know everything about this man in ways he’d never wanted to understand anything before.

Martìn sighed heavily, air rattling out through his ribcage while he contemplated his friends question.

He did want to tell Andrés. That was the problem. For the whole of his life Martìn had never had the inclination to share any of his past with those around him. The memories filled him with a sorrow that he buried deep within himself. A tap turned tightly off that he had no desire to ever open. 

Yet recently he’d found thoughts and memories leaking more into his daily routine, something about Andrés presence seemed to be bubbling up the truth in Martìn. It terrified him. To confront what had happened seemed impossible, yet to hide it from Andrés was also unfeasible. He wanted to share everything with Andrés, wanted to have a bond like no other, to give the man all that he had. The very thought petrifies him. To reveal his own weakness, his failures and shortcomings. Part of him is convinced the other man will leave him for the pitiful creature he is. 

Martìn sighs again deeply. This is something he knows he has to do, to hell with the consequences. 

“I think we’re going to need some wine.”

Martìn doesn’t deliberate over the bottle, he just picks up the nearest one to him and pours one for him and one for Andrés. Then his fingers absently stroke the stem of his glass, as if he is trying to coax the words out of himself. Andrés sits patiently, waiting for what exactly he is not sure.

They sit in silence for a few minutes.

“Fuck this, I need a shot.” 

Springing to his feet Martìn swiftly pours two shots of rum. He motions to Andrés who shakes his head, declining. Martìn shrugs his shoulders and knocks back both shots in quick succession. 

“Ok. So I should start by saying i’ve known Laszlo for a long time. A really fucking long time. Since I was ten.”

Andrés allows himself a smile at the thought of a ten year old Martìn. Imagines he had very much the same boyish features his does now.

“Him and Alberto were sort of like, surrogate dads to me I guess. Fuck that sounds kind of weird when I say it out loud, but it’s true. My real dad was a fucking asshole. Your classic drink too muck, sniff too much, beat the shit out of your wife and kids kind of guy. Like I said, a real asshole.”

Andrés had suspected this to be the case but it hurts to hear it from Martìn, he cannot stand the look of distress on the other mans face, nor the idea of someone ever harming him.

“I don’t know why my mum kept him around. But she did. I don’t think she could’ve left him if she tried.”

He exhales sadly, thoughts of his mother always darkening his mood. 

“Well, Alberto and Laszlo looked out for me in ways she couldn’t. They’d make sure I was fed, made sure I had clothes. Hell, they even gave me a place to stay when it wasn’t safe for me to be at home. They were more a family to me than my real one ever was.”

Family. The word has always held a half bitter taste in Martìn’s mouth, he washes it down with a little wine. 

“I told them I wanted to do something with my life. I didn’t want to a end up like my dad you know?”

Andrés nods.

“They were so supportive. They believed in me, told me I could do anything. I’d, well i’d never had that before. My dad’s nickname for me was good-for-nothing.”

Asshole. Andrés has to swallow the rage he feels at anyone lessening Martìn’s worth. This man is a marvel and should be appreciated as one. 

“I worked my ass off in school to get the grades I needed for a place at university. Getting accepted was a fucking miracle in itself, my god how we celebrated that.”

Martìn allows himself a smile at the memory; how Alberto and Laszlo had embraced him, showering him with praise and champagne. One of the happiest moments of his life. 

“My mum didn’t really understand what I wanted to do, when I told her I was studying she looked at me like i’d grown another fucking head. Education wasn’t really the done thing in my house. If you couldn’t drink it, smoke it or spend it then what was the point?”

He laughs bitterly. 

“I wanted to do it for her as well as me though, I thought maybe if I got a good enough job i’d be able to save her from him. Thought maybe if she moved out she’d start to see what a pig he was, that a fresh start would be the change. Of course I was too young to know better.”

Martìn sneers at his youthful optimism. 

“Anyway, turns out education is expensive. Really fucking expensive. I was living at home still, I didn’t want to leave my mum alone with him. I was working nights in bars to try and pay my tuition fees. Laszlo and Alberto were pitching in with what I couldn’t cover myself, which was already a lot. But shit, I was barely even surviving. I was struggling to stay awake in class I was so tired from the night before. I was like a fucking zombie.”

Andrés gives him a look of understanding, can only begin to imagine the amount of pressure a young Martìn would put himself under. 

“But then I met this guy, Mateo. He was, I don’t know, my first love I guess? Well young dumb me thought so anyway. I must’ve had idiot written across my forehead. He’d say jump and i’d say how high.”

“So Mateo knew I was having money trouble, it was pretty fucking obvious really, and he said he could help. I thought how nice of him you know? This guy wants to help. Thought i’d found an ally. So-”

Martìn takes a deep breath. 

“He gave me some coke to sell.”

Martìn watches Andrés for disapproval but finds none. 

“I was against it at first, I didn’t want to be around the stuff having seen first hand the effect it had on my mum and dad you know? But Mateo insisted, said the money was good. Told me to trust him. Told me he loved me. Told me basically everything I needed to hear to convince me. So I thought fuck it, why not? I could always change my mind right?”

The question is rhetorical. Andrés waits for Martìn to continue. 

“So I shifted the first load. Selling drugs to students is the furthest thing from a challenge I could ever imagine and Mateo was right, the money was good. More than I could ever hope to have made from bar work by a fucking mile.”

Martìn looks to Andrés who is listening intently. 

“Well i’m sure you can figure out how the next part goes. I got more, sold it. Got more again, sold it. You get the idea. I started making enough money that I could actually cover my tuition. My grades were better. I could focus more in class, really started to thrive. Laszlo and Alberto knew what I was up to, I told them from the start. Neither of them have ever been straight in any sense but they warned me of the risks. They told me they’d help me with tuition, said I was better off not getting into it with El Chapo’s cartel. Said they didn’t trust Mateo. I thought I could handle it, wanted to stand on my own two feet, to pay them back. Told them that Mateo was helping me build a better life.”

“I started getting bigger bits, really shifting it, I felt like a king.”

Martìn looks down into his glass.

“So then I get home one night. I’m feeling pretty good, i’ve just come top of the class and the semester is almost out. Me and Mateo are still going strong. My dad has barely even spoken to me in the last month. Things are fucking good. Like, really good. Too good to be true right? And well, i’ll be damned if it doesn’t go to shit quicker than you can say hijo de puta.”

* * *

_There’s banging on Martìn’s door, his father presumably. Impatient bastard. Their relationship had always been volatile though it had improved somewhat since Martìn started paying his rent in cocaine. This kept his father permanently occupied; the man became much more concerned in regaling friends with stories of self importance than lashing out at his wife and son. The trick was to give him just enough, a delicate balance that Martìn believed he had struck. Obviously it hadn’t been enough today._

_Martìn opens the door and is surprised to see his father flanked by two other men; one he vaguely recognises, mostly due to the ridiculous neck tattoo, and the other he does not. He masks any hint of concern with a nonchalant attitude, addressing his father._

_“Diego.”_

_“Boy”._

_Martìn hands him a clear plastic bag, with what he considers to be a generous offering. He’s feeling charitable today, life is good._

_“And for you gentleman?”_

_Martìn turns to his father’s friends, assuming they’re there to buy from him. He tries to keep business away from home but allows an exception for Diego, it is easier that way._

_“We’ll be taking it all.”_

_“Can you afford that?” a touch of wariness creeps into Martìn’s voice. Never trust first time buyers with big bits. He’d learnt that before._

_“We won’t be paying.”_

_Shit._

_The penny drops and Martìn throws the weight of his body against the door, trying to force the men out. His efforts are not quite quick enough and the three men muscle into the room. Diego’s accomplices each grab an arm as Martìn tries to duck through them. They throw him back away from the door, pinning him against the wall._

_This is not good._

_With one man either side of him Martìn is completely trapped. Diego saunters forward, waving the bag back and forth in front of his son’s face._

_“You think this enough Martìn?” he practically spits the words._

_Ungrateful son of a bitch._

_“You think can keep what you make from your own father?”_

_Martìn laughs._

_“Father? Come on Diego we both know that’s a bit of a stretch.”_

_Diego prods Martìn’s collar bone sharply. A warning._

_“You think i’ll be happy to live on crumbs like some sort of dog.”_

_Martìn sticks his chest out defiantly in response._

_“A dog knows its ass from its nose at least.”_

_He receives a backhand across the face for that. It is expected. Worth it._

_“Nothing wrong with this nose boy. Now, tell me where the rest of it is.”_

_Martìn nods to his rucksack on the bed, in it is half an ounce of powder, individually wrapped into singular grams, ready for the evening ahead._

_“It’s right there.”_

_Diego snatches it, eyes glistening. Martìn knows that look._

_“But, if you take that I won’t have the money to buy more, you’ll be out of your regular supply Diego” Martìn tries to keep his voice neutral, but even he can hear the condescension in his tone. Knows that Diego will hear it too._

_The response comes in the form of two swift punches to the stomach. Martìn doubles up in pain, struggling to catch his breath._

_“Don’t think me stupid boy, I know this isn’t the rest of it.”_

_“I told you,” Martìn wheezes heavily between words “once I shift the rest i’ll pick up more tomorrow.”_

_Diego’s firt connects with Martìns jaw this time and for a second everything goes black. The sensation is familiar, his ears are ringing while his head spins but he knows he hasn’t been hit hard enough to lose consciousness. Diego waits a second before trying again._

_“You think this is enough for me hmm? Your little scraps?”_

_He slaps the bag in his son’s face._

_“This. Won’t. Do.”_

_Martìn feels the panic rising in him. If they find he rest of it he is fucked. Well and truly fucked. The timing is awful, he shouldn’t even have the rest of it here. He never kept it here for more than a night. He knew the risks. He was always careful. Always._

_“Please, there is nothing else.”_

_“Oh Martín, you disappoint me. You’re telling me you walk around the place Mr Big Shot university student hmm? And you’re only selling this much?”_

_“It’s all I have.”_

_Martìn tries again, hoping they’ll believe him. They can’t know that it is here. The only people who know are him and Mateo._

_“We both know that’s not true. You see Martìn, I know you’ve been moving more than this. A lot more. I know you don’t keep it here. That’s smart. What isn’t smart is that once every six weeks you keep it here for a night, don’t you? Before it gets broken down and moved about. Your friend Mateo told us about that. He’s a nice guy, shame he’s a faggot.”_

_Martìn doesn’t hear much above sound of disbelief in his own head._

_“Mateo wouldn’t tell you anything.”_

_He’s certain. Mateo had told him he loved him. There was no way his boyfriend would rat him out, least of all to his father. Mateo knew how the man treated Martìn._

_Diego’s laugh is a blend of malice and pity._

_“Oh contraire mi hijo, he told me plenty. Offered me the information actually. Seems you’ve been getting a little too big for your boots, getting a little too good. Well, it won’t look too good if you don’t deliver on your goods will it? Imagine if Mateo were to tell Chapo’s men that you were trying to cut him out, going into business with your father. How much of the golden boy would you be then?”_

_“Bullshit.”_

_“We laughed about it you know, poor little Martìn, so desperate to be loved. He told me how easy it was to lead you on, a few nice dates, a gift here and there. Told me he’d even written you a poem. Well, that he’d copied it from the internet. How you’d welled up when he’d read it to you. You are pathetic boy.”_

_Any shred of hope Martìn has been holding onto leaves him them. The weight of his loneliness forcing his body to slump in defeat, betrayal stinging through his veins. He feels desolate but he urges himself to resist from slipping into despair. Forces himself to focus on his anger, his hurt. Feels a small wave of resilience rising up. Fuck them both._

_“Where is it?”_

_“Where’s what?”_

_Martìn asks innocently, he is fairly certain the next hit he receives breaks a rib._

_“Don’t play dumb with me.”_

_“It’s not here. What makes you think i’d tell Mateo everything?”_

_He tries to sound more convincing than he feels, and it pays off. The men either side of him look a little worried while Diego shouts and begins to tear his son’s room to pieces. Every time he fails to find what he is looking for, his anger and venom grow. Martìn hasn’t received a beating like this from his father in years, yet still he keeps his mouth shut. Hoping that they’ll give up, that they won’t be able to find it._

_The men start to second guess if Mateo had been telling the truth. There is an air of doubt looming around this so-called stash. Martìn is beginning to think that they about to give up. They have looked almost everywhere now._

  
_Hope can be almost as cruel as fate can, neither luck not fate was on Martìn’s side that day. In one last display of anger Diego had thrown Martìn’s text book across the room; had that been any other book, one with less weight or one just a little smaller, then there would’ve been no problem. Had his father thrown it any other place within the room, literally any other place, then his secret would have remained safe. But no. Not today. On that day the textbook collides with the exact weak spot in the wall that Martìn had fabricated to hold his supply. A direct hit._

_Diego sees the hole that the corner of the book has made, eye lighting up in realisation while Martìn’s heart sinks. Diego leaps to the wall and pries at the rest of the brick work, within minutes he has both hands on Martìn’s full supply; about twenty five thousand dollars worth of cocaine._

“I literally begged him not to take it. On my knees. It was pitiful. Of course he took it. Took it and sniffed it or sold it or god knows what. But it was gone and I was in some serious fucking shit with the cartel. Like, serious shit.” 

Andrés nods gravely, understanding the severity that Martìn had found himself faced with. Cartel men were not men to be trifled with, men who did not forgive. 

“There was no way I could pay that back. Not a fucking hope in hell. It was my word against Mateo’s. Diego’s handiwork at least did my a favour in that way, I hardly looked like someone who had just started a new business venture. They wanted the money back of course, more in fact. But they said if I paid then we’d be square. I must’ve been the golden boy because they would’ve killed most men regardless.”

Martìn remembers it clearly, how he’d limped to Alberto’s place. They’d taken one look at him and known. Known it had all gone to shit as it was always destined to. They hadn’t even said I told you so. They’d never judged. They’d patched him up, told him to stay as long as he need and then asked him how much he owed. When he told them their faces dropped. It was a lot of money. 

“Laszlo drained every ounce from his savings for my mistake. Didn’t even think twice about it. That was him and Alberto’s retirement money. They were going to travel the world. All gone for my fucking mistake.”

“It wasn’t just the money either Laszlo had to call in some serious favours as well, I don’t know what strings he pulled.”

Martìn looks solemn now.

“I had to drop out of uni, one month shy of completing my degree. There was no way to pay for it. I went full-time at the bar. Needed to start paying Laszlo back. Shit, i’ve been working my ass off ever since and I feel like i’ve barely made a dent in it. He keeps telling me not to worry about it, but how can I not?”

“They’re still stuck here because of me. They should be travelling the world, but instead Laszlo had to take some shitty job as the Garcia’s errand boy just so him and Alberto could afford to pay their rent.”

Martìn trails off. He dabs at his eyes with the back of his hand, wiping away a few tears, refusing to even look at Andrés. Martìn gets up to pour himself another rum, shame gripping every ounce of his being. 

Andrés has never been the greatest comforter, he would readily admit that himself. Emotions were more often than not foreign to him, oe wondered if that was why he was so drawn to Martìn’s openness; the man wore his heart on his sleeve in many ways. Andrés admired that trait in him, his ability to say and show what he felt, it was noble. Poetic. Yet now to see his friend in front of him looking lost in despair, well, it made Andrés own insides contort in pain.

Martìn is staring deeply into his glass when he feels a hand on either shoulder, gently turning him around. 

Martìn tucks his chin to his chest, unable to meet Andrés gaze. 

“Martìn,” his voice is like velvet. A hand gently under Martìn’s chin, drawing his eyes up. 

“You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Damn Andrés’ mind reading capabilities. 

“You were manipulated and used by self-serving savages, the burden of shame rests solely on their backs. You are a fighter, a survivor. _You_ are the victor here.”

Martìn nods, though it is obvious he doesn’t believe the words. Andrés understands that words can feel hollow against a world of pain and watches Martìn’s eyes slip back down towards his feet.

He instinctively pulls the smaller man into his arms, taking them both by surprise. For a second Andrés is panicked that this isn’t the right thing to do, but he relaxes when he feels Martìn burying his head into his shoulder. It feels natural to run his hand over the Argentinian’s back while one hand stays firm on the back of his head. He just wants to see that look of pain as far away from Martìn as possible.

Martìn had always hated showing vulnerability, he knew any sign of weakness could and would be used against you. That was how the world worked. He’d imagined a vast number of differing outcomes when revealing his past to Andrés, but this scenario had never featured in his wildest dreams. Martìn couldn’t recall ever being held or comforted, not like this, he felt a safety that he’d never known. 

He breathed in against Andrés, no man had the right to smell that good. He suddenly feels self conscious. 

“Shit sorry, i’ve left a face print in your jacket.” 

Marin pulls aways from the spaniard. 

“Well it is certainly a unique design,” Andrés looks down at it, marvelling at what is clearly a Martìn shaped pattern upon his lapel.

“In fact I am rather fond of it,” his eyes are on Martìn now and there is a look there that is hard to place.

Martìn feels Andrés heart racing just as much as his is now and watches the man’s eyes flick to his lips. Martìn feels his own lips purse in anticipation as they lean a little closer together, he can almost feel Andrés breath against his own.   
  
The phone rings and they jump apart, startled by the noise. 

Martìn answers it in a daze, still trying to comprehend what had almost just happened. Was Andrés going to kiss him?

“Hola, La Cabrera.” 

It is Alberto on the other end, checking the arrangements for the party the hundredth time. Typical.

“Si si si Señor, we will both be there of course.”

Martìn rolls his eyes at Andrés who is now pouring himself another glass of wine, a bemused look on his face.

“Si Andrés will be making those.”

Martìn mimes something about blinis and Andrés nods.

“Si and those.” 

“Si, I will tell him how much Laszlo loves red velvet cake, and yes I am sure he will take that as a hint to make one”

He looks over at Andrés and they both smile fondly.

* * *

Martìn is attempting to gift wrap the whiskey, it is fair to say that it is not going well. There is tape in his hair and tape on his fingertips; in fact there is tape pretty much everywhere but the actual bottle and paper. 

“How is it that someone so adept in engineering cannot wrap a simple present?”

“Well thank you for that lovely bit of insight Andrés, so very helpful” Martìn snaps but he knows his frustration will only amuse Andrés further. He turns to find he is right in his assumption, for Andrés is wearing a self satisfied grin. Smug bastard. 

The spaniard is hovering by the door, something clear;y behind his back though Martìn cannot quite make out what. He is surprised to see the Andrés looks a little nervous, the expression looks out of place on his usually placid features. Martìn puts the tape and paper down. 

“Is that your present for Laszlo your hiding there?”

Martìn moves to try and get a glimpse of the package but Andrés moves swiftly, still obstructing his view.

“No.”

Martìn reaches to grab it and Andrés dodges him again.

“Did you get him whiskey as well? I swear Andrés you better not have copied me.”

Andrés laughs at Martìn’s whining tone. 

“You sound like a five year old.” 

“You’re the one playing keep away.” 

Andrés relents at that and takes a breath, suddenly understanding how Martìn must’ve felt before he’d told him about the troubles of his past.

“This isn’t my gift to Laszlo. It is my gift to you, for Laszlo.” 

Martìn looks confused. 

“Is this your way of telling me the whiskey isn’t a good present? I knew it! I knew it wasn’t enough. Fuck, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! You see, there is simply no way I can-“

Martìn is halted mid speech when Andrés reveals what is behind his back.

It is a painting. Not just any painting. This one is special.

Martìn is not an art aficionado; he cannot wax lyrical about paintings in the way Andrés can, though he loves to listen and boy did Andrés love to talk about art. Martìn finds it funny how similar he and Laszlo are in that respect. What Martìn hasn’t learned from Laszlo he has learned from Andrés, but despite Andrés frequent impromptu speeches about brush strokes and painting styles, Martìn is still very much a novice in the art department. This makes it all the more surprising that he recognises that painting in Andrés hand. 

This painting depicts a river scene. A boat atop a canal with a domed building in the background. Martìn can appreciate that it is well painted, a masterpiece in oil. He knows that the scene is of Venice; not so much from the details of the painting, though they are spectacular, but because he has had this painting described to him on several occasions. 

_“Ay Martìn she won’t stop going on about this fucking painting. She’s never even been to Venice! She doesn’t even know Menichini or any of his works, she cannot appreciate his talent! It’s all just money to her! The pastel pinks of the buildings, the gentle blue of the sky, all go right over her numb skull. Menichini has captured the tranquility of the city magnificently. The clouds appear as if they are moving and he has generated life in the stillness. It is a thing of beauty; a lesson in captivation! Yet all that idiot can fucking talk about is how much she paid for it. Puta.”_

_“You can’t buy class Laszlo, though i’m sure she’s tried.”_

_“That’s true Martìn, very true.”_

_Martìn sighed sadly._

_“Laszlo, i’m sorry you have to work there. To work for that family. I’m trying to make the money back I swear but it feels like I am getting nowhere”_

_Laszlo reaches his arm around Martìn’s shoulders._

_“Martìn don’t worry about that, please. Besides, it is not your fault she’s such a bitch. Do you know what she told me? To keep my no-good fag hands away from her work of art. That I ‘wouldn’t be able to appreciate anything as classy as that’. I wanted to wring that bitches neck, stuff her head and hang it on the wall.” Pero no, of course I said ‘yes mam’ and went and picked up her dry cleaning.”_

“That’s The Grand Canal painting.”

“Si.”

Andrés is pleased that Martìn recognises it.

“The one that was taken from the Garcia’s?”

“Si.”

“Did you buy it?”

Andrés laughs, scoffing at the idea of paying for art. How ludicrous. Martìn’s brain is whirring as he connects the dots.

“You stole it?”

A pause. 

“Si.”

Andrés is trying to read Martìn’s face, knows this is a risk. No-one besides Sergio knew of his real line of work, his true calling. Even Andrés ex-wives hadn’t been privy to that information, though they’d been happy enough to reap the rewards of it. In truth Andrés had never felt any such inclination to reveal this part of himself, the part that he felt was most him. He’d never expected to find someone to understand, so he’d never bothered. Yet here he was, anxiously awaiting approval from the man in front of him. He could be met with dismissal, anger, disgust. It was a roll of the dice for sure. 

Martìn pauses, for what seems like a very long time. Then he is laughing. First a little, then a lot. He’s almost crying with laughter.

“You stole the Garcia’s most prized possession?”

Andrés nods.

“Of course you did. That. Is. Fucking. Amazing.”

Andrés smiles proudly, any trace of tension leaving his body.

“But how?”

Martìn is holding the painting now. Unable to believe what he is seeing. 

“Their security was really rather shoddy, it was very basic work. Almost too easy to be worth it. Though the dogs did add to the challenge a little”

“I can’t believe you stole it. Fuck, have you done this before?”

Andrés nods.

“I’m actually very good at it.”

 _I’m good with my hands._  
  
“So that’s where you get your money from?” Martìn starts to piece together the other man a little more and he’s laughing again, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Why do you still have this? Don’t you normally sell them on?”

“Something made me hold onto it.”

In truth Andrés had seen it as a memento of his first encounter with Martìn, he’d felt a very odd reluctance to part with it and had never been one to deny his own intuition. He’d told himself he’d hold onto it while its value accrued or so that he wouldn’t be easily caught. He didn’t normally stay so close to the scene of the crime.

“But wait no, you’re giving this to me?!”

Martìn seems to only just realise the purpose of the painting in front of him.

“Si. I think Laszlo will appreciate it no?”

That was the understatement of the century. Laszlo loved art as much as he hated the Garcia’s, Martìn couldn’t conceive of a better present or a more worthy recipient. 

“Andrés do you know how much this is worth?”

“Do you take me for an amateur? Of course I know how much it is worth. But worth and value are two different things are they not?”

Martìn goes to speak and Andrés cuts him off.

“I don’t want to hear whatever protest is about to come from your lips mi amigo. This is a gift from me to you and you will accept it and do as you see fit with it” 

Martìn’s eyes well slightly, he puts the painting down and pulls Andrés into a tight bear hug, kissing the other man on both cheeks.

“You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Andrés thinks that he does, he can see it in his friends eyes. His smile. The lightness and relaxed demeanour. He looks practically giddy. 

That expression on Martìn’s face means more to Andrés than any painting ever could, though he’d never dare voice those words out loud. Not even to himself. 

* * *

“Well that was a roaring success!”

Alberto turned to Laszlo, clinking their glasses together in celebration.

“Si, mi amor. Gracias. That was the best birthday I have ever had.”

Laszlo looks lovingly at the man next to him, Alberto sure knew how to throw a party. Having it at La Cabrera had been a stroke of genius, it had added a homely feel to the festivities and he had loved seeing Martìn in his element. The young Argentinian had been on fine form, the master of ceremonies, even rivalling Alberto in how he commanded the attention of those around him. Laszlo noticed how it was a certain Spaniard’s attention that Martìn seemed to bask in the most, how he and Andrés seemed to spark off of each other. In truth they reminded Laszlo of he and Alberto when they were young.

“Wasn’t the food to die for? I love what Andrés has done with the menu.”

“You love that he asked you to try all of his ice creams mi amor.” 

“Well of course, I am an expert in that department. Andrés even said so himself.”

Laszlo smiled lazily, taking another sip of champagne. Andrés knew exactly how to charm Alberto and it had amused him to watch.

“And Martìn’s gift.”

Alberto nudges him, as they both stare at the painting hung proudly on the wall.

“I really cannot believe it.” 

Laszlo blinks, almost as if to check that it is real. When Martìn had pulled him aside, away from the crowds, he had initially thought something was wrong.

Martìn had thanked him, as he had time and time again, for what he had done in the past. Laszlo had told him, as he had time and time again, that it was done and he would not change a thing so that Martìn should forget about it and live his life. That repaying him was unnecessary. When Laszlo had opened the present it felt like, well as if the world had gone full circle. It was a strangely wholesome sensation, Martìn’s eyes shining with pride as they both stared at the painting. The moment was that of pure triumph. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Laszlo didn’t ask and Martìn didn’t tell, they simply embraced. 

“You don’t have to sell it you know?"

Alberto ventures carefully, he can see how much this piece of art means to his partner.

“I want you to see the world cariño. Besides, the meaning of the work goes far beyond what is on our wall.”

Alberto beams, squeezing his lovers hand.

“But we can appreciate it a little while longer no? I have the perfect buyer in mind. He’ll find as much value in it coming the Garcia’s as I do.”

“Of course my love. It is a beautiful painting, and we deserve to admire it. Did Martìn say how he came upon it?”

“I didn’t ask, though i’d imagine Andrés has something to do with it. He moves like a thief, and I mean that as a compliment.”

“I know you do cariño.”

Alberto pauses thoughtfully.

“If it came from him you know what that means?”

“Qué?”

“That Martìn told him about what happened.”

Laszlo had often wondered if Andrés knew of Martìn’s past. He knew that Martìn hadn’t told a soul, that it was a weight he burdened himself with. They never spoke of it, but Mateo’s betrayal in particular had left a lasting mark. He’d watched Martìn’s fleeting romances never creep beyond lust. One night stands never extending past a week. ‘Boom boom ciao’ is what Alberto called it. Laszlo called it fear. He had once known that fear himself.

“Good. Martìn needs someone he can trust. I like Andrés.”

“I think there is more than like between them.”

Alberto gives Laszlo a knowing glance.

“Ay Alberto you always think that.”

“I’ve seen the way they look at each other. It is not just Martìn’s eyes that hold that expression of wonder you know?”

Alberto always kept a watchful gaze over Martìn, he was protective of that boy. Saw him like a son. When Martìn had slipped with a tray of drinks earlier that night Alberto had been poised to run over, but found himself easily beaten to the mark by Andrés. Alberto had looked on curiously as Andrés had pulled Martìn softly to his feet. Inspecting him for damage he’d assessed the small cut on Martìn’s hand. Martìn had been all too happy to have Andrés tend to his wound, the other man procuring a first aid kit, removing the glass and wrapping the injured hand with an attentive tenderness that Alberto recognised.

“You think? But Andrés was flirting with Isabella tonight.”

Indeed, it was almost as if Andrés had caught himself in the act of caring. For soon after he’d so painstakingly tended to Martìn, Andrés was off making a show of one of the ladies in attendance. Flirting devilishly in a way that was too over the top to be anything other than false bravado. Of course the woman lapped it up and Martìn pretended as if it didn’t bother him. Ah yes, this was all too familliar.

“Si. But you know what straight men are like. Look how long it took you to realise mi amor. The amount of women I had to endure by your side. You are lucky I am so patient.”

Laszlo laughs.

“True.”

He leans over to kiss Alberto.

“I am a lucky man indeed.”

Alberto blushes.

“Well, I finally won you over in the end.”

“I had a moment of realisation.”

“Pshhh. You took too much acid and didn’t know up from down, let alone straight from gay.”

Laszlo laugh fondly at the memory while Alberto shakes his head, smiling.

“Like I said, a moment of realisation.”

* * *

“You have a date with him?” Andrés does his best to sound nonplussed but cannot keep the disdain from his voice.

“Si.” 

Martìn hasn’t had a date for a long time and doesn’t see why it should bother Andrés so.

“The man from last night?” 

“Si.”

La Cabrera’s tapas nights had become increasingly popular and the prior night had been no exception. The restaurant and bar had been full to the brim with guests desperate to sample the culinary delights of, what was quickly becoming, one of the hottest places in town. Andrés had been rushed off of his feet the entire evening, orders coming in left right and centre, despite this it hadn’t escaped his notice that a gentleman with slicked back hair had latched onto Martìn most of the night. 

This wasn’t entirely unusual, for Martìn’s charm and charisma became the focal point of the entire atmosphere, his presence commanded attention, Andrés knew that. However Martìn usually glided from table to table, spending equal time with each guest, always leaving them wanting more; yet this man monopolised Martìn’s attention the entire night; Andrés had even had to go and make himself a coffee. 

“The pompous pervert?"

“His name is Arturo and he wasn’t pompous.”

Martìn returns to fiddling with his shirt buttons, nerves starting to surface.

“Besides that’s rich coming from you.” 

Andrés knows Martìn is nervous, he always gets snarky when he’s nervous.

“I’m not pompous, i’m refined. There is a distinct difference,” replies Andrés haughtily. 

“Unless of course you are jealous mhmm?” Martìn waggles his eyebrows towards Andrés in a way the he knows is sure to irritate the other man.

“Jealous? Of the armadillo in the cheap three piece?” Andrés laughs at the very notion of it. 

“His suit may be cheap but he’s taking me to Aramburu.” 

Aramburu was one of the finest restaurants in town, having just earned its first Michelin star. Martìn knew he’d feel out place there but he appreciated the gesture, it was nice to feel wanted. 

“I just don’t see why you would bother to waste your time on someone like that.”

Andrés made no attempt to hide the disdain in his voice this time. Jealous. Him? Never.

“Oh, so the string of recent ladies in your wake has been time well spent mmm?” Martìn tries to keep his tone light but there is a slight edge to his voice. 

La Cabrera had been thriving since Andrés had come onboard and the initial six months Andrés promised Martìn had doubled without a mention from either man. Martìn did not wish to rock the boat for he enjoyed having Andrés there more than he truly understood. It was only in the past few months that Martìn had noticed Andrés spending a little more time out in the evenings, heard him dropping a few more female names. It had hurt Martìn more than he would care to concede, though the initial sting had worn off.

Their relationship was a close one, but Martìn understood his place now. Friends. They were friends. Very close friends. With slightly blurred physical boundaries, but nothing more. It was better this way. As friends.

“Well they certainly enjoyed themselves.” 

Andrés gives Martìn a smug look and he rolls his eyes in response.

Martìn had heard very much how well some of those women had enjoyed themselves. It had done little to quell his imaginings of Andrés expert touch upon his own body. The thought of that sent a shiver up his spine. It had also pleased him that, while the women seemed to moan loudly whenever they spent the night, that there was little to be heard from Andrés. Oh he was sure he could elicit all sorts of sounds of pleasure from the other man, certain that if he were to get on his knees he’d have Andrés moaning his name, grabbing fistfuls of hair.

Shit. None of that now Martìn. You’re going on a date. Get. A. Grip. 

He stood up, glancing in the mirror.

“How do I look?”

Andrés gazes up from his recipe book. 

“Like you tied that tie in the dark.” 

Martìn huffed, struggling to straighten it. 

“Come here.” 

Andrés beckoned him closer. Deftly pulling the tie from his neck and expertly re-tying it. Andrés was a man of precision, though he certainly seemed to be taking his time with this. Martìn tried to ignore how their closeness sped his breathing, how every fibre of his skin felt summoned to Andrés. 

Andrés concentrated on the task at hand. He wasn't thinking about how easily he could pull Martìn to him, how achingly close there lips had come all those months ago, how his mind drifted to the other man at the most inopportune moments - while he was with other women for example. No. He wasn’t thinking about it at all. Of course not. He was just tying the other man’s tie. He stepped back, admiring his work. Admiring Martìn.

“Better.”

“Better?”

Andrés nodded.

“Just better?!”

“What do you mean just better?”

Martìn huffs in front of the mirror.

“Wow Andrés you really know how to dish out the compliments. ”

“Oh for goodness sake Martìn! Any pompous prick would be lucky to have someone as dashing as you beside them. You’re only fallibility is your own damn stubbornness to see it. You look glorious. A sight i’m sure will be wasted upon your poor choice of company.” 

Martìn beamed at Andrés who had already turned his nose back to the recipe book.

“So I look dashing? Well I guess you better not wait up for me in that case.”

Martìn winks.

“I have menus to revise. I will be waiting up for no-one,” Andrés buries his nose further into the pages as if to prove his point. 

* * *

  
Fucking hell. This man was so much worse than a pompous prick. It was only through Martìn’s sheer willpower to prove Andrés wrong that he and his date had made it as far as dinner. 

Firstly Arturo had arrived late, wreaking of vodka and cheap aftershave. 

“Marcel, i’m sorry for my tardiness.” 

Marcel? Who the fuck was Marcel. The man looked anything but apologetic.

“I’m a busy man, you know how work gets.”

Martìn could concede that work did tend to get in the way of prior engagements but he did not concede to Arturo lunging at him next, tongue grazing his neck in some strange sort of embrace.

Martìn pushed him off firmly.

“Arturo, if you are going to be late, for the love of god at least get my name right. It is Martìn. Not Marcel. We met but twenty four hours ago, it is not such a hard thing to grasp is it?”

“I can give you a hard thing to grasp.”

Martìn closes his eyes and forces himself to take a calming breath. He really should just leave. There is no way this is going to end well. Then Martìn thinks of Andrés at home, sure to give him that ‘I told you so’ look. He thinks of how often Andrés is out and about with new women in tow, knows that he needs to get out there himself. That the strong temptation of taking Andrés ‘I told you so’ and spending the evening with him at home is the exact reason that Martìn must at least try to have a nice date. He knows he needs to find his own way in the world, to move past lusting after his friend. 

Right.

“Arturo. For fucks sake. Keep what is in your pants, and all talk of what is in your pants to your god dam self. You promised me a nice evening and so far you’ve delivered the exact fucking opposite. At this point i’d rather be dining alone.”

Martìn’s harsh word seem to sober the man slightly.

“I am sorry Martìn, it is just that looking at you has excited me. I promise to behave better, I am a gentleman of course. I apologise again.”

Martìn nods. Regret. Regret. Regret. No. He can do this. 

“I have made reservations, the finest place in town. Except for your restaurant of course.”

Arturo’s charm is paper thin and Martìn cannot believe he really thought he could have a nice evening with this man. A nice dinner at least, he’s sure Andrés will be delighted to hear about what food Arumuburu are serving.

“Lets just go and enjoy dinner shall we?”

Martìn’s smile is false, he gets into the taxi while trying to shake off the feeling of dread.

* * *

  
Midway through the entrees and Martìn is working out how the fuck he can possibly get out of here. This is the worst date he has ever been on. Arturo, to give him credit, had been on better form on the way to the restaurant, far ,ore reminiscent of the man he had met the previous night. Once they arrive at their table though he resorts to being, for a lack of a better word, a massive prick. 

He alternates between flirting overly suggestively with Martìn, cringingly so, to getting Martìn’s name wrong again while trying to pretend that it was in fact Martìn who’d told him his name was Marcel. Martìn is poised to leave after Arturo makes such lewd remarks at the waitress that the poor girl will no longer serve their table.

Martìn very much wishes he had left when their new waiter arrives. It is none other than Mateo. Of fucking course. 

Oh great and now Arturo is flirting with him too. 

“Martìn, it is great to see you here. Are you on a date?”

Mateo looks well, his presence making Martìn feel as small as it ever did. Instantly regressing to his younger self.

He attempts to answer when Arturo cuts in.

“A date? Oh no, this is more of a business meeting, isn’t that right Marcel?”

Martìn flushes with rage and embarrassment, cursing himself for not having the sense to leave earlier.

“Excuse me for one second.”

Martìn heads to the bathroom. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck. 

He locks himself in a cubicle, trying to still his heart which now seems to think that he is running a marathon. Calm down. Calm down. His heart has other ideas as it lurches in his stomach, verging on a full blown panic attack. Martìn grabs his phone and punches in his home number, entirely convinced that Andrés won’t answer. He’s probably out with Sofia, or Julia or whatever name he has made it onto now.

Martìn is so surprised that there is an answer at all that he doesn’t give the other man a chance to speak.

“Andrés it’s me.”

Nice one Martìn. Me. How very specific. 

“It’s me, Martìn.” He needn’t have bothered, Andrés knew it was him even within the first second.

“Martìn? Are you alright?” 

The note of concern in Andrés voice is touching and plays some part in slowing Martìn’s over active heart. 

“Martìn, what’s wrong?”

“You were right. He’s an asshole.”

Andrés resists the urge to say I told you so. Now is not the time.

“How much of an asshole?”

“He told the waiter we were on a business meeting.” 

“A business meeting? Hijo de puta. Why haven’t you left?”

Martìn had been asking himself that question all night. 

“I can’t just leave. Not now. We have a new waiter.”

“You can’t leave because of the waiter?” 

Andrés tone is of confused amusement, he is more than slightly relieved to find that Martìn’s panic is date related as opposed to something more sinister. Andrés own heart had fluttered in alarm when he’d answered to the phone to such a panicked sounding Martìn.

“Si. The waiter. Remember my old pal Mateo? Well looks like he fucking works here.”

“Oh Martìn, querido, how do you find yourself in situations such as these?” 

Andrés light laughter only fuels Martìn’s rage. 

“Well thanks very fucking much for the support Andrés. Great to have a friend to talk to.”

He hangs up and instantly regrets it. His hot-headed nature could often get the best of him when he felt trapped, and boy did he feel trapped.

Maybe he should phone Andrés back? No. He should leave. Leave and he and Andrés can laugh about this when he gets home. Yes. Definitely. Leave.

Could he just leave? He could leave. He’s just going to leave. No he’s not. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t just leave and have Arturo and Mateo there laughing at his expense. He couldn’t run away from it. He’d have to go back out there. Face them both head on. 

Fine. It was a business meeting. He could do that. Business was something he was good at. Splashing water on his face he looked in the mirror, you can do this.

Retuning to the table he could see Arturo still doting over Mateo. Assholes.

“You didn’t tell me you knew the lovely Mateo?” Arturo directed it at Martìn but never took eyes off the waiter.

Well it seems he knows at least one person’s name.

“Yes, we were acquaintances a long time ago,” Martìn is curt and his emphasis on long doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Ay Martìn acquaintances? It hurts me that you would speak of what we had in such a callous way. I seem to remember doing more to you than just acquaintances do eh? Although sorry maybe that is not appropriate talk for your business meeting”

Mateo gives Martìn a lustful gaze as he saunters off, trailing a lingering hand over Martìn’s shoulder. The touch and look seem to freeze Martìn to the spot as a wave of old emotions wash over him. Martìn is lost in thoughts which drown out Arturo’s blathering, it seems an eternity before the main courses arrive and Martìn wishes the ground would swallow him up.

Mateo has returns to their table with the mains, though he is completely ignoring Arturo’s advances on and is focusing all of his attention at Martìn. Each time Arturo tries to compliment Mateo the waiter somehow redirects it at Martìn, making Arturo looks foolish and leaving Martìn completely puzzled. Mateo is in the middle of telling Arturo how wonderful at engineering Martìn is when his eyes snap to the door, more customers. He fixes his hair and excuses himself.

“Duty calls.”

Arturo looks a little dejected and turns his gaze back to Martìn now, presumably trying to salvage what sliver of a chance he thinks he has. The delusion of this man. Jesus.

“So, Martìn, you look very handsome tonight.”

Martìn genuinely shudders at this man, thinks that maybe he prefers it when he calls him Marcel. At least that way he can disassociate himself from his company.

“Handsome? Hardly the appropriate talk for a business meeting is it Arturo?” 

Martìn’s tone is sharp. Full of bite.

“Well what I meant by that was-“

“Please excuse my unacceptable lateness” 

Martìn feels two hands resting on his tense shoulders and he melts into the touch, instantly recognising the voice.

“To be left to a business meeting without your partner is truly unacceptable. My sincerest apologies Martìn”

Andrés squeezes Martìn’s shoulder before pulling up a chair beside him, their thighs brushing under the table. 

Andrés turns to Arturo, offers him a wolfish smile. Showing his teeth. 

“And you are?

“Arturo.”

Arturo holds out his hand but Andrés has already to turned to the freshly arrived Mateo. 

“Would you like me to recommend you some wine Señor? Or perhaps Martìn here can make the recommendation, he is of course the expert” Mateo casts his eyes back to Martìn who looks increasingly uncomfortable. 

“So your recommendation is to have someone do your job for you?” 

“Well no, what I was simply saying was..”

Mateo falters under Andrés stern tone.

“What you were saying was that Martìn here knows far more about wine than you. Admittedly this is true, but to try and palm your duties off on a customer seems a little tactless don’t you think?”

“I was paying him a compliment.” 

Mateo tries to sound firm but he squirms under Andrés firm gaze.

“And i’m gifting you with some advice, now take it and run along. On your return bring another glass and bottle, and perhaps little less attitude if you’d be so kind. We have business to attend to.”

Mateo scarpers off to another table while Andrés turns his attention to Arturo.

“So Arturo, what business is it that you seek from La Cabrera? I assume it must be something of high interest if we are dining in such fine settings.”

Arturo is quiet. Tongue tied.

“Come dear, don’t be shy. It was you who called this business meeting no? You’re acting like i’ve walked in on a date.”

“Well actually, this is a date.”

Andrés exaggerates a laugh. 

“An excellent joke Arturo, I like your sense of humour. A date Martìn, isn’t that funny?”

“Hilarious.” 

“But come now, down to business. Do you require our expertise for a function of sorts? Maybe a surprise birthday party for your wife?”

Arturo shifts and Martìn raises an eyebrow at Andrés.

“Oh Martìn, do you mean to tell me that Arturo hasn’t mentioned his beloved?”

Andrés had left fairly sharply after Martìn’s call, but not before making a few enquiries of his own.

“Arturo how can you plan her a party my dear, if you don’t mention her. People could get the wrong impression. Heavens, they might think that you were trying to bed dear Martìn here.”

Martìn pretends to be shocked at the notion.

“Bed me? Why Andrés, this is a business meeting. Maintain some decorum please!”

“Quite right Martìn, I apologise profusely.”

He pats his hand onto Martìn’s knee by way of apology. Martìn’s whole leg tingles under the touch and Andrés nearly loses himself in the sensation. He clears his throat, addressing Arturo.

“Your marriage to your wife must’ve just slipped your mind in the same way your ring slipped your finger Arturo, these things happen I imagine.”

“He does seem quite clumsy Andrés, at on point I thought he was going to slip right into Mateo’s lap.”

Andrés barks with laughter, how terrible that Martìn’s sharpness could be wasted on such fools.

“Well I suppose Martìn we must forgive him, marriage can do all sorts to a mans brain. I know, i’ve been married five times.” 

Martìn laughs now, Andrés turns to him.

“Martìn querido, would you be so kind as to hurry along the air-headed pretty boy with our drinks? I fear between remembering to breathe and walk that our order may have been lost.”

Martìn nods, understanding his cue. Savouring Andrés term of endearment.

“Arturo, arturo, arturo. It’s Arturo Roman isn’t it?”

Arturo nods, unsettled by Andrés tone. 

“See something about you makes me a little uncomfortable Arturo. Your very presence make my skin itch like that cheap suit of yours.” 

“Now, normally I could let something of that manner slide, live and let live as they say. But as you are here, sharing a table with someone to whom I am very dear, well, it seems I cannot simply ignore what it is about you that makes me feel so uneasy.”

Andrés takes a drink from Martìn’s glass.

“See Martìn is trusting, it is a beautiful quality in him I will admit, however it is a quality that I do not share. I am a little more suspicious of unsavoury characters that appear unannounced. Something about you makes the alarm bells in my head sing. They are never wrong Arturo.”

Arturo shifts in his seat.

“You made a bee-line for him last night, and though I cannot fault your taste, even I found your insistence a little overbearing. A little too unrelenting.”

Andrés is watching Arturo for signs, knows exactly where to press to gauge a reaction.

“Then, chance should have it that you bring Martìn to the very place that an old, not so much friend of his works, funny that isn’t it?” 

“It’s a small world.”

Andrés laughs sinisterly. 

“You are not wrong my friend, yours is getting smaller by the minute.”

“If you mean to threaten me-“

“I don’t do threats, I make promises. Much easier to keep track of.”

“What you do you want?”

“Why are you here?”

Arturo goes to speak, but Andrés silences him.

“Think about your next words very very carefully. I am not a man to be lied to, nor am I a man of much patience. Anything other than the truth would be a magnificent waste of breath, and you never no how many of those you have left.”

Andrés voice is dangerously low and Arturo wants no part in this. 

“Look Mateo knows about my affairs alright?”

Arturo has the decency to look embarrassed.

“I slept with him and he said he’d go to my wife unless I did something for him.”

“Go on.”

“He told to me find to go to La Cabrera, find Martìn. Flirt with him, charm him, do what I could to get him to come here with me on a date. He’s not even my type.”

Andrés lets that comment slide but has the strongest urge to punch Arturo for even insinuating that Martìn wasn’t desirable. Clueless idiot.

“And why did he want Martìn here?”

“He said to get Martìn here and behave like a bit of an asshole, then to leave midway through the meal.”

“Well at least he gave you a manageable role.”

Arturo pulls a face at him. 

“Look I just didn’t want my wife finding out. I don’t know Mateo well, we fucked. He blackmailed me. End of. He’s been more interested in Martìn than he ever was in me.”

Andrés looked for any deceit on the mans face and upon finding none dismisses him.

“Ok Arturo. I believe you. You can go now. Leave your card.”

“What, why would I leave my card?”

“We shall enjoy a few bottles of wine on your behalf, for taking up our valued time.”

Arturo looks like he wants to argue but thinks better of it. 

Martìn is just returning to the table as he hears Andrés passing farewell.

“Now, scurry on home to your wife and try not to fuck anyone on the way out. Ciao.”

Sliding into the chair opposite Martìn smiles broadly at Andrés. 

“Oh so thats that how you conduct our business when i’m not here.” 

“Why do you think we’re always so busy?” 

“Because we keep that charm of yours locked in the kitchen?” Martìn quips, much to Andrés amusement. 

“Arturo found me charming, he’s treating us to dinner on him. Isn’t that fabulous?”

“Fabulous indeed.”

Andrés is about to speak, tell Martìn of what he has just learnt, when Mateo flounces over to their table; two bottles of wine in hand, completely unperturbed by Arturo’s absence. 

“What happened to you business meeting Martìn?” Mateo’s voice is laced with false sincerity and it grates on Andrés immeasurably.

“Well it appears Arturo has left.” 

Andrés is glad to notice that Martìn seems just as unimpressed by Mateo’s intrusion as he is.

“And will your colleague be staying?” Mateo addresses the question to Martìn but it is Andrés who answers.

“Si.” 

Mateo turns to look at him now.

“If you have other business to attend to I can happily keep Martìn here company. We go way back you see, we have history.”

Oh so its a pissing contest you want is it? Andrés had always been good at marking his territory.

“Mateo isn’t it? Yes i’m very aware of you and Martìn’s previous acquaintance. Not something i’d be keen to remind anyone of given your behaviour”

Mateo is surprised, it had never crossed his mind that Martìn would have shared that information with anyone. Martìn was quick to admit his own faults but carried the weight of others with him, its what had made him such an easy target to begin with. 

“Curious Mateo, that you are surprised Arturo left when it was you who arranged it?”

Martìn raises his eyes quizzically, Andrés would really rather have had this conversation without Mateo’s irritating presence.

“Strange isn’t it? That you’d go so far as to blackmail a man into luring Martìn here.”

The cogs in Martìn’s brain whir, as he tries to make sense of this situation. 

“Would you care to explain yourself Mateo?” 

“I have nothing to explain, that is a ridiculous suggestion”

“It is not a suggestion. It is a statement of fact. There’s a difference, I suggest learning it.”

“Martìn you cannot seriously believed I blackmailed someone into bringing you here? That’s crazy!”

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve done. Seems like just your style of manipulation to me.”

“You don’t know me. Martìn tell him this is madness!” 

Andrés goes to speak again but Martìn raises his hand.

“Andrés por favor, allow me to explain,” interjects Martìn. 

“Stop me if i’m wrong at any point Mateo si? See Andrés, Mateo knows I would never chance an encounter with him again, that much is obvious. Even the younger me would’ve known far better than to tempt fate like that. I was foolish, but not a total idiot.”

Mateo says nothing.

“But if I were say, to be on a date, a date with an ignorant pig who should stand me up in Mateo’s company, well that would leave me feeling a little shitty would it not?”

Silence.

“Alone is a posh restaurant, probably having to foot the bill, as surely he would’ve left before paying, maybe after the mains? Maybe during. Oh how lonely I would be. Poor lost little Martìn, in desperate need of someone to swoop in and save the day. Someone who could guide this lost little lamb. That would be you wouldn’t it Mateo?”

Martìn takes that silence as another affirmation and sputters incredulously. 

“You think we’d sit here drinking wine?! Laughing at old times?”

Andrés places a calming hand on his forearm.

“You always played on my insecurities Mateo, I can see it now. Using my weakness to gain your strength. No doubt I made it easy for you. But what did you think would happen tonight? Honestly? That i’d fall for the charm of cheap lines and a stand-in date? Your opinion of me really hasn’t tchanged much.”

“Oh Martìn, so serious now. You never had a problem before, following me around like a little lap dog. You enjoyed it, got the love you so desperately craved.”

It is Martìn’s hand that calms Andrés now, as the Argentinian senses Mateo is about three more words away from being strangled on the spot by the man beside him.

“Enough of that Mateo. Your words really mean nothing to me. I just need to know why? Why now?”

Mateo shifts uneasily. 

“I have an opportunity for you.”

Martìn’s laugh is hollow.

“Like the last one? You fucking asshole. An opportunity for you more like. You think i’d be stupid enough to get involved with you or anyone you associate with in any way again? You really haven’t changed Mateo. But I have. I am not the same young boy you took advantage of, do not mistake me for him.”

Andrés smirks at the looks of displeasure on Mateo’s face, feeling a sense of pride for his friend beside him. 

“So you can take whatever offer you have and return it to the asshole it slipped out of.”

Martìn turns.

“Andrés, i’d quite like to leave.”

“Of course Martìn.”

Andrés picks up both bottles of wine.

“Our friend Arturo has kindly offered to pay for these.”

They both move towards the door, Andrés hangs back slightly as he passes Mateo, standing directly in front of him.

“Martìn made himself exceptionally clear, but just in case your hearing is as impaired as your choice of judgement is, then please allow me to clarify.”

He picks up a fork and presses it forcefully against Mateo’s lower rib cage, whispering in his ear. 

“The only future business meeting you need be concerned with is between this fork and your cajones. Comprendes?” 

The other man nods dumbly.

“Muy bien.” Andrés smiles wildly to Martìn.

“Shall we go?”

Martìn smiles back.

“Por favor.”

* * *

“You were splendid querido! Bold. Powerful. Phenomenal”

Martìn laps up the the praise, basking in the moment. 

“What did you say to him?”

“I merely reiterated your stance and threatened to castrate him with cutlery.” 

Martìn’s eyes twinkle. 

“Well that was the best worst date i’ve ever had.”

“I fear that you have appallingly low standards of what constitutes a date”

“Thank you again Andrés.”

“Martìn that was all you querido, I was just glad to be able to witness it.” 

“Querido huh? That’s new.”

Andrés had failed to notice how easily the endearment slipped from him, though he tries to remain nonchalant. 

“Is it? I think it nothing new that I care for you Martìn. Surely that much is obvious? Perhaps you are just unused to such terms of fondness because you have truly terrible taste in men.”

“And who would you have me date then?”

The question somewhat floors Andrés because the first answer that comes to his mind looks distinctly like himself. 

“You are asking for dating advice from a man with five ex-wives? Maybe that is your first problem Martìn.”

“That was a very evasive answer Andrés” Martìn looks him in the eye, stepping a little closer to him.

Andrés stand where he is, never one to back down from a challenge.

“Someone worthy of you.” 

“Oh?” Martìn’s eyes widen a little in response, he wasn’t sure what answer he’d been expecting but it certainly hadn’t been that.

“Martìn you are an open book. You are intelligent, funny, sharp; sharper than anyone i’ve ever met. You are reckless in your emotion and yes so calculatingly articulate. You need someone who will match you, challenge you and shine a light to all you are.”

Martìn runs his tongue over the tip of his lip and Andrés eyes are immediately drawn there, his throat suddenly feeling dry. 

“It sounds like you’re hitting on me, querido.”

Martìn uses the word on Andrés now, rolling the r seductively, he can see that effect it has on the other man when his pupils dilate, breath catching in his throat. 

“Ah but Martìn, you have seen the trail of beautiful ladies behind me no?” 

Martìn looked either side of him.

“I see just you and me here.”

Andrés smiles, chucking softly. They are playing a dangerous game and they both know it. 

“You’re telling me you’ve never been curious?” 

Martìn steps closer again, they are practically toe to toe.

“Curious?” Andrés raises his eyebrows but doesn’t back down.

“Yes Andrés, you are a man with an inquisitive mind and you are telling me you’ve never thought about it?"

Prior to meeting Martìn Andrés could happily have told him he’d never thought about it. Not once. Now to utter such a statement would be untruthful. 

“I’ve thought about a lot of things.”

“And the beauty of the male form?”

“Naturally as an artist I can appreciate beauty in all forms, male or female.”

“Ah, but we both know i’m not talking about art now.” 

Andrés stares at man in front of him, radiating confidence. He cannot deny his attraction, for he feels it deep within him, a yearning he is yet to fully recognise. Andrés found this side of Martìn alluring, he was predatory and adept at taking charge, though Andrés was nobody’s prey.

“It seems odd to me Andrés, that a man as worldly as you would dare to put a limit on his own passion, on his own pleasure” 

The word pleasure all but drips from Martìn’s lips. 

“Querido, I can assure you my pleasure has never been limited.”

Andrés voice is low and Martìn feels his own pants tighten at the challenging tone. He moves closer again, leaning in.

“But how can you be sure?”

He places a hand on Andrés chest.

“How can you know if you’ve never tried it?”

They are achingly close now, the wine on Andrés breath mixing with the whiskey on Martìn’s. 

“Unless you’re scared?”

Andrés eyes darken at this, he places his finger on Martìn’s lips, silencing him. Martìn gulps.

“Is this what you want, hmm?”

He traces his finger across the outline of Martìn’s mouth, slowly, deliberately.

“Is this what you are trying to goad from Martìn?”

He runs his thumb over Martìn’s bottom lip, pulling on it slightly. The sensation causing Martìn to close his eyes in pleasure, a small hint of a moan escaping his throat. Andrés moves his hand now, caressing Martìn’s cheek, trailing a path down the other man’s neck. A sharp tug on Martìn’s hair is met with a lower moan, Martìn feels powerless, whimpering at Andrés touch.

“Is that what you want from me? To seduce you?”

His fingers walk a gentle line on Martìns shirt, massaging his chest, toying with the buttons. Martìn gulps, staring wide-eyed at the man in front of him.

“Martìn what I have with those women, with any of them, it is nothing to what is between us.”

Andrés drops his hands now. Martìn feels bare at the lack of contact. Bereft. 

“You think I would care to cheapen what we have in such a careless manner.”

The disappointment that Martìn feels it quashed by the desire that Andrés words cannot mask. Martìn can see how effected the other man is. Cool calm Andrés is breathing heavily, trying to control himself. Trying to resist. Martìn feels emboldened by this.

“You think this cheap Andrés?"

He pushes himself against him, is rewarded the with the sound of Andrés breath hitching slightly. Still Andrés does not move. 

“This energy between us, we are like magnets.”

They are chest to chest. Martìn’s lips hover across Andrés neck, just above the skin.

“I know that you can feel it too.”

Andrés eyes are closed now.

“Do you know good we could be together.”

Martìn’s hands find Andrés hips, rocking him softly towards him.

Andrés moan comes out as a deep growl that he is powerless to control. Martìn pushes the weight of his body against him, unable to contain his own moan of pleasure on discovering just how hard Andrés is. 

There is a second, where Martìn feels as though Andrés is about to kiss him. To give in to the temptation. He can see the wanton look in his eye, the unflinching carnal desire. But then it is masked, a lid upon a boiling pot. Andrés hands are on his chest, pushing him away this time.

“You are drunk Martìn.” 

He can see Andrés trying to steady himself, tries to read the features of the man in front of him. 

Andrés looks away, unable to confront the emotion in his friends eyes; the rejection and confusion. The hurt. The lust. It is too much, Andrés head is swimming with thoughts and it unbearable. He feels his grip on control slipping. Cannot allow it. 

“I’m going to bed Martìn. I suggest you do the same. Good night.”

Andrés returns to his room in as dignified a manner as he can manage, though his heart is racing. On pushing the door shut behind him he realises he is shaking, quivering at the touch of another man. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alberto. I’m going to hang up now because I am hours away from disappointing thirty loyal customers and my chef is probably riding a fucking unicorn across Buenos Aires as we speak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am delighted that I finally managed to finish this chapter. Its been in the works for some time but unfortunately there hasn't been quite the time needed to prioritise it. Until today. Wahoooo. I hope you all enjoy reading it, it is very much dedicated to everyone who contributes to fic writing and reading on here. That provides all the inspiration and motivation to write.
> 
> Very mature content at the end. Yee have been warned.

“YOU DID WHAT?!”

The words boomed down the phone line, a roar of disbelief. Alberto flinched and turned his head, attempting to evade the loud assault on his ears.

“Oh Martín, there is no need to take such a dramatic tone with me! Un-bunch your panties por favor. Calm down!”

If Martín hadn’t been so enraged he would’ve gladly informed Alberto how ineffective it was to advise someone, who was completely fucking livid, to ‘calm down’.

He would've probably said something like ‘oh right I was absolutely furious but now you’ve said those two magic words I am transformed into a state of zen-like tranquility. Bra-fucking-vo’ - or some other equally scathing words to that effect.

But, as it stood Martín was a man who was well beyond calming down, and as such, he was beyond the small talk of rebuking the older man’s word choice. There were more pressing concerns to attend to.

“DRAMATIC!? Alberto i’ll march down to your place right this fucking second and show you dramatic! Puta Madre!”

Even through the receiver Alberto could sense Martín pacing. It had been something he’d done since he was a boy, a nervous habit that now made Alberto feel perhaps a tiny bit guilty. But only a little.

“Martín! You’re getting carried away nieto! Honestly, it’s not such a big deal.”

His attempted placation fell on deaf ears, and only served to irritate Martín further.

“NOT A BIG DEAL??”

The question hung in the air, even Alberto, antagonistic as he was, had enough sense not to answer it. Red flags and charging bulls were a combination best avoided after all.

“Alberto.”

Martín said the world slowly and deliberately, as if talking to a child.

“I have a table of thirty coming in tonight. Three. Zero. They, that is the couple and their extended family, have booked to celebrate a fiftieth wedding anniversary. Some people consider being married for fifty years a pretty big fucking deal! A big enough deal to book months in advance and pay the full fee upfront! A big enough deal to have a ten course tasting menu specifically designed for the occasion! With every course, might I add, symbolising each of the five years that they have loved one another! A tasting menu that Andrés has spent the last three months perfecting! The last three months Alberto!”

Alberto held the receiver away from his ear as Martín’s voice thundered down the line. Ah mierde! He’d been sure that the function was booked for next week. That was not ideal.

“And you mean to tell me,”

Martín continued in a low tone, using his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. The gesture was supposed to be calming but instead left two angry red marks between his eyes.

“You mean to tell me that YOU don’t know where Andrés is! You don’t know where he is, after you, you Alberto, specifically invited him round, under what false pretences I don’t know-“

Alberto gasped in horror.

“They weren’t false! I did want to borrow that Montagne cookbook! Andrés has been promising to bring it over for ages. It’s actually rather good there’s a section where-”

“Alberto! I don’t give a flying fuck about the shitting cookbook! Jesus fucking christ!”

“Don’t take it out on the book,” huffed the older man.

If Martín could’ve reached down the phone to strangle him he was certain that he would have.

“Trust me it is not the book that my anger is directed at. My rage is very much pointed at an out-of-his-mind kook who decided, for what fucking reason I cannot imagine, to drug my business partner!”

“I didn’t drug him!”

Drug was such a nasty word.

“Then please tell me what you did do?!”

Alberto paused slightly in consideration.

“I seasoned his tea.”

His light tone made Martín scoff.

“With?”

The response was mumbled quickly.

“AlittlebitofLSD.”

“SO YOU FUCKING DRUGGED HIM!”

Silence.

“Not only did you drug him, but you drugged him and then you lost him.”

“I didn’t lose him! He left.”

“How is that any better?!”

Martín’s voice went so high-pitched that he sounded just as he did before he hit puberty. Alberto decided that now probably wasn’t the time to mention that.

“What was I supposed to do? Did you want me to hold Andrés here against his will hmm? So then you could shout at me for doing that too?”

Alberto’s sulking tone only fuelled Martín’s exasperation.

“No! What I wanted you to do was not slip acid into his tea! Alberto fucking hell! How is that even a request I have to make?! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Ay, it was only a small drop Martín really, heavily diluted, i’m sure he’ll be fine in a couple of hours”

Martín heard murmuring on the other end of the phone.

“Ok so maybe more than a couple of hours, it seems somebody finished the last bottle of acid and replaced it with a concentrated batch! And that somebody did this without having the courtesy to tell his boyfriend might I add!”

Alberto’s pointed tone was clearly directed beyond Martín, he heard Laszlo protesting in the background.

“Well how was I to know you were planning on drugging our guest mi amor? It’s hardly the usual afternoon tea party etiquette is it?”

Martín praised whatever deity match made Alberto and Laszlo, at least one of them had some semblance of sanity.

“That’s besides the point Laszlo! What if i’d taken that myself? That must have been ten times the strength at least! It’s not mixed down with anything and I wouldn’t have even known, because _you_ didn’t have the care to tell me! Imagine what could’ve happened!”

“I don’t have to imagine carino, I tried some last weekend. Let me tell you mi amor, that is some potent shit.”

Laszlo’s summary did nothing to alleviate Martín’s concern, neither did Alberto’s next passing remark.

“Well that explains a lot, when Maria said she’d seen you having an argument with a tree that wouldn’t shake your hand I thought it odd even by your standards.”

Laszlo laughed fondly at the memory, he’d befriended that tree eventually. It still hadn’t shook his hand though.

“Don't laugh! She thought you’d lost your mind. I told her it was a Hungarian thing and she went off on a rant about Eastern Europeans. Racist bitch. Remind me i'm not talking to her.”

Martín was at a loss for words.

Both of these men were as bad as each other. What hope did he have in this world for a normal life? Dios mio. Martín took the phone receiver in his hand and proceeded to bang it into his own forehead repeatedly.

“Martín? Martín? Sorry I think the connection is bad, you’re breaking up.”

“Alberto. I’m going to hang up now because I am hours away from disappointing thirty loyal customers and my chef is _probably_ riding a fucking unicorn across Buenos Aires as we speak.”

* * *

Andrés was lost. Lost in every sense of the word. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make head nor tail of his surroundings.

He’d been on the same street for the past half an hour, yet it looked no more familiar now than it had thirty minutes ago. To make matters worse his short-term memory seemed intent on playing hide and seek with him, images flitted across his mind briefly only to dash off as soon as he tried to unravel them.

Was this what madness felt like?

Quite possibly.

What in God’s name was happening to him?

Think.

Andrés took a deep breath and shut his eyes. Where had he been before he got here? Although the details were starting to garner fuzzy edges he was certain he’d been to see Alberto.

Focus.

His mind conjured up a picture of himself and the older man chatting together, poring over his recipe book. Everything had seemed normal. Everything had been normal hadn’t it?

Yes.

Yes, they’d definitely been having a pleasant conversation, he could even hear the laughter in his head now. Or was that his brain laughing at him? The joyous sound instantly transformed into a cruelly mocking tone that caused his insides to tense in fear.

He shook his head vigorously. Enough of that.

Now, what had happened at Alberto's?

The clock.

He’d been looking at the clock. Yes that was right. He’d been looking at the clock because he had to go somewhere. It was important.

Important. Important. Im-por-tant.

The word continued to ring in his ears. Three syllables beating like a drum, over and over.

Another wave of nausea washed over him and Andrés was forced to stand still as the world spun around him. He gulped for breath, certain that his lungs were failing him. When did air become so heavy? His sweaty palms could barely maintain their grip on the lamppost that was supporting him. He rested his forehead on the cool metal and wondered if he was dying after all.

No. No, he was most certainly not going to die in some unknown location with his face leant against some filthy streetlamp. He lifted his head and glanced around, dazed eyes scanned the surroundings. What street was this?

The buildings loomed tall, unwelcoming and fierce, they sneered at him. You don’t belong here. The highest windows stooped over his hunched form and peered into his face accusingly. Andrés shook his head, unwilling to make eye contact with the world around him.

Right, he had no fucking idea what street he was on. Fine. That was fine. He placed a hand against his chest and checked that his heart was indeed still there and hadn’t made a break for it, as it kept threatening to.

His heart was quite clearly still there, its usual slow and steady rhythm had been replaced with an erratic symphony; his heart leapt and bounded as if there was something sinister lurking around every corner.

A memory popped into Andrés head with dazzling clarity, like the flash of a camera.

A-ha. That’s why he had left Alberto’s. Fear.

Alberto had been speaking, telling a story with wild gesticulation as he often did, when an atmosphere of foreboding had started to creep into the room. Andrés had looked to Alberto, checking to see if the other man too had felt the ominous presence; but Alberto had just smiled, unaware of the dread that had pulled up a seat to their table.

Andrés remembered he had laughed loudly, falsely, trying to shoo the feeling away. His laugh must’ve been misplaced because Alberto had fixed him with an odd look. Odder still was when the older mans face had begun to warp, drooping downwards until it bore uncanny resemblance to Munch’s _Scream_. Andrés had felt himself staring, mouth agape, and he’d forcibly snapped his head away. That was when he’d noticed his own foot tapping nervously on the floor.

That wasn’t something he did. Ever.

His own lack of composure had been a great cause for alarm. He’d spent the best part of his youth learning to manage emotions, wrangling them into submission until he’d hid them from everyone, even himself.

Yet now, his body betrayed him. He’d cast another glance to his jittering foot and this time was greeted by the jaws of a monstrous carpet rising up to meet him. The beast writhed beneath his toes, desperately trying to capture his bouncing shoe within its clutches.

Ah yes. That was why he’d left. The rug had been trying to eat his foot. A simple enough explanation. He shook his head, bemused.

Was he having some sort of stroke? An aneurysm perhaps? Was this how his mother’s disease had started?

The thoughts danced around his brain, they tormented him with doubts and seemed intent on generating huge ripples of anxiety. Should he get help?

He looked furtively around him.

What sort of assistance did one request in this scenario?

Passers by seemed completely alien and almost unrecognisable as fellow creatures. Their bodies constantly shifted from big to small while their limbs hung garishly off their skeletons. They were loud too, frightfully so, the garbled gibberish they emitted caused his body to turn away from them in horror.

No, he didn’t want their help. Speaking to anyone else was the very last thing Andrés wanted to do.

He was on his own.

Ok. Breathe. Breathe and focus. With each breath Andrés found he could stop the world from spinning for a moment, though the respite was temporary, it was only a matter of seconds before the colours started to warp and bubble again, fizzling in new ways they attacked his senses. The panic began to rise in his stomach, it slithered up his ribcage like a serpent that betrayed the temple of its master.

It was all too much. The colours were too bright and everything was too loud. The buildings. The people. The traffic. He was overwhelmed by the ferocity of his surroundings, yet when he closed his eyes to block it out, it was his own mind that became of pit of monsters and snakes. He was trapped. Living between two bad dreams with no apparent means of escape.

Everything started to close in on him. He couldn’t stay here, this place would eat him alive.

Andrés' feet suddenly spurred into action, as if they knew where they needed to be. The shoes that had narrowly escaped death by carpet were now marching a path triumphantly, they dragged Andrés scattered brain behind them. He felt very much as if he were the carriage and they were the horses drawing him. His two new best friends, his trusted steeds.

One, two, one, two.

Counting the movements brought a blanket of calm to his mind.

One, two, one, two.

He supposed that his left foot must be named One and the right must be called Two; he would call out their names, in his head of course, and they would respond with a tap of the pavement, it was some sort of morse code that only the three of them knew.

This was madness wasn’t it?

Andrés even managed a laugh at the lunacy of it, he felt a little more at ease with his current condition when his feet were in charge.The world still swirled around him but he and his wing tipped comrades beat their own path of resistance. His feet took him far from too-tall buildings and gangly armed obnoxious creatures, away from the jarring noises and the jungle of traffic animals. The streets slowly peeled away until Andrés could make out swaying tree tops in the distance, they sang in time with the strides of his feet and their leaves waved at him, welcomed him closer. The vibrant greens allowed a sneaking warmth to flush into his veins, his doubts started to listen to the whispering suggestions of peace.

Soon enough he was surrounded every shade of green he’d ever known; emerald leaves blended with olive tinted bushes while lime hues melded amongst the pea green shrubs. His was immersed within mother nature’s palette, completely in awe of the landscaped garden he’d found himself in. He was a man sat in a painting, a landscape piece of serene tranquility. The tree branches stretched out to greet him and beckoned that he take a seat amongst them. He assured them that he would and thanked his gracious hosts as he lounged back against them. Shutting his eyes he let his mind drift along happily, like a stone skimming the top of a pond.

“I thought i’d find you here.”

Andrés opened his eyes to the familiar voice, squinting as the bright world took shape around him. The blurred figure in front of him sharpened in focus.

“Laszlo?”

Andrés posed the question more himself than anyone else, half sure that this must be another one of his mind’s tricks. It was only when the figure broke into a smile that he became certain the other man was truly there. His spirits lifted instantly.

“Si Andrés, i’m impressed that you recognised me. You have some very strong LSD firing through your brain mi amigo.”

Andrés looked at his hand, as if to double check the man's words. He could see right through his skin and pinpoint the texture of the bones beneath. Interesting. X-ray vision probably wasn’t a recognised side effect of spontaneous descent into madness. Maybe he had been drugged. Marvellous.

“LSD?”

Laszlo nodded slowly and surveyed the manic looking man in front of him. He’d been surprised to find the Spaniard in a fairly calm state. Laszlo wouldn’t have openly admitted it to Martín, the man was panicked enough, but he’d been more than a touch concerned for Andrés welfare upon finding out just how much of the bottle Alberto had poured him. Alberto, to his credit, had been absolutely distraught upon his realisation.

_“I only wanted him to lose the stick up his ass, not his whole fucking mind.”_

He too was out scouring the local neighbourhoods for any signs of Andrés, though Laszlo had insisted they split up to look. Mostly because Alberto’s incessant self-pitying, a thinly veiled facade for his looming guilt, was hugely counter productive, but he also doubted that Andrés would wish to be bombarded by Alberto’s rambling apology.

The Spaniard seemed to be taking the whole ordeal remarkably well, he was wearing a distant glazed look that Laszlo recognised. It was the the look one attains when you stare at the universe and it stares back twice as hard. Andrés looked to the sky and let out a large laugh.

“Well that explains a lot.”

He let out a deep sigh, the relief evident in his now relaxed posture.

“Am I to assume that the esteemed Señor Sanchez is responsible for my current state?”

Laszlo nodded again and Andrés slapped his knee in laughter.

“That crazy old bastard. Well at least my mental faculties are somewhat intact though Laszlo I must admit, the things I am seeing right now are wondrously terrifying.”

“Acid will do that to you Andrés. The best way is to let go, acceptance will get you a lot further than resistance. Far better to embrace the colours, the sounds, the sheer madness of it all for the journey that it is and know that it will eventually subside. Although you do probably have a good six or seven hours of this to go mi amigo.”

“Jesus. You take this for fun?”

Lazlo chuckled.

“When you relax it is rather spectacular, though _choosing_ to take it does help with that.”

Andrés grimaced.

“I can only apologise on behalf of Alberto, he meant well. He also didn’t intend for you to have such a strong dose. That was partially my fault.”

Laszlo held his hands up in apology.

“I’m too relieved to be angry, it’s quite funny really if I think about it.”

“It’s good to hear you say that because there is something else..”

“There wasn’t heroin in there too was there?”

Laszlo laughed again.

“Glad to see you still have a sense of humour. You’ll need that. No heroin but I’m afraid it seems you have a rather important function tonight.”

Of course. The images flooded back now. Prep. Tasting menus. Thirty guests. The clock. Important.

“Martín, is err.. shall we say a little panicked?”

Even the man’s name brought a flood of warmth to Andrés. Ah wonderful Martín. A beautiful soul if ever there was one. Of course the Argentinian would be worried, there was so much to do! What on earth was he doing here when he should be there with him?

“Well we can’t have Martín panicking can we? Though I must say the prospect of cooking seems a tad ambitious given my current state. I’m not even sure which of your heads i’m talking to right now Laszlo.”

Laszlo laughed.

“I must say Andrés, you’re dealing with this very well.”

“I was initially convinced I was having a stroke. Shortly before that I thought the carpet was trying to eat my shoe. If this is dealing with it ‘well’ then I don’t dare imagine the alternative.”

“Trust me. Bad trips on heavy doses are, well, somewhat horrendous, but we won’t talk about that, it is important to focus on the positive, it really shapes and colours what you see.”

Andrés noticed the truth in Laszlo’s words already, the other man’s presence had invigorated his spirit.

“But I think for now we should get going.”

“Where are we going?”

“To La Cabrera, for the function.”

“Ah yes, I had completely forgotten.”

Andrés looked surprised at himself but Laszlo smiled knowingly.

“That doesn’t surprise me. Your focus is going to drift a lot, that is completely normal. I’ve got a couple of valium for you that will help take off the edge, but it’s going to be an _interesting_ night for you.”

* * *

“Martín!”

The Argentinian swore that he’d never heard anyone express such joy to see him in his whole life. The fact that the exclamation came from the usually calm and composed Andrés was even more perplexing, though he’d be lying if he said that it didn’t bring a smile to his face. More than anything he was relieved to see the other man in one piece, though he did look a tad deranged.

“Andrés?! Are you alright?”

Martín looked intently at the Spaniard, he noted his huge dinner plate eyes and the giddy expression on his face. Jesus, he was as high as a kite. He was the epitome of every ‘say no to drugs’ campaign Martín had ever seen.

Andrés didn’t answer. He had become fixated with the grey lined pattern on Martín’s shirt. The stripes pulsed and vibrated against Martín’s skin in a way that seemed most enticing. He wondered if they would move like that under his fingers. His hand reached out with a mind of its own and started drawing small circles across Martín’s chest. Andrés was completely obvious to all but the feeling of the fabric under his fingertips and how it rose and fell in time with Martín’s breathing. The Argentinian’s heart skipped a beat as he tired to steady his racing pulse, he turned to Laszlo with a ‘what the fuck’ expression on his face.

Martín suppressed a soft moan and gently placed his hands over Andrés’, stilling the motion in an attempt to get the Spaniard’s attention. It worked to some extent, though only in shifting the object of the the man’s focus.

“Martín you have such soft hands.”

Andrés fingertips gracefully traced Martín’s palm with an impressively light touch. Martín couldn’t hide his look of amusement at the man in front of him.

“You’re really tripping aren’t you?”

Andrés laughed at that, dropping Martín’s hand and looking him in the eye.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Martín ran his fingers through his hair, already he missed the feeling of Andrés hand on his but someone had to be practical here.

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to work?”

“I’m not sure of anything.”

Andrés had said it with such a look of delight that Martín couldn’t help but smile in return, despite his own groan of frustration. This was going to be difficult.

“Isn’t uncertainty such a wonderful concept? To think that we don’t really know anything. How marvellous. We plot and plan as if our lives depend on it yet control is really just a spectacular illusion, I honestly cannot comprehend why we hold so tightly onto such a thin thread of falsehood.”

“Ok?”

Martín raised his eyebrows and turned to Laszlo for a more definitive answer.

“Is he going to be able to work?”

Laszlo pulled a slight face.

“Well the valium should kick in soon and that should help a little. He needs to keep hydrated but staying focused is going to be the biggest challenge. I really have no idea if he’ll be able to cook. Is there any way you can cancel?

“Cancelling is not an option.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to make do with what we have.”

Neither Laszlo nor Martín looked convinced as they witnessed Andrés staring intently at, what appeared to be, absolutely nothing.

Laszlo placed a hand on Martín’s shoulder.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Por favor Laszlo. I don’t think I could comfortably leave him in a room of knives and flames. Look at him”

Laszlo nodded.

‘Understandable, I’ll let Alberto know i’m going to be home late.”

“Feel free to tell him that i’m going to kill him, or at the very least maim him when I see him next.”

Laszlo laughed.

“I’ll be sure to pass on the message.”

* * *

“Andrés are you alright in there?”

Martín had escorted Andrés upstairs so that he could get changed, having handed him his chef whites he’d pushed him into the bathroom with the explicit instruction to ‘put these on and try not to break anything’. Andrés of course had just giggled and sauntered into the bathroom looking like he hadn’t a care in the world.

That had been ten minutes ago and Martín was starting to worry that the other man had somehow strangled himself with in an apron or tried to go swimming in the bath tub and drowned.

“Si, si, si. I am perfectly alright Martín, wonderful in fact. These clothes feel fantastic on my skin, so white and fresh. I feel like i’m bathing in silk.”

“Bathing? You didn’t get in the bath did you?”

“Just a metaphor querido, no need to be quite so literal, I can follow basic instructions you know”

Andrés pointed tone drew a frustrated sigh from Martín. This man was impossible.

“Are you ready then?”

Martín asked again impatiently, still talking to the bathroom door.

“Ready for what?”

Give him strength.

“To cook?!”

“Oh well yes. I thought you just wanted me to put these on.”

“Yes, put them on and then get out of the bathroom”

“Well why didn’t you say so?”

“Basic instruction my ass,” grumbled Martín as the door opened.

Andrés waltzed out of the bathroom wearing the same amused expression he’d had on all evening. He’d managed to get changed into his chef whites but for some inexplicable reason he had left his jacket completely unbuttoned and wide open.

Martín’s eyes were immediately drawn to Andrés’ lean torso, his tongue inadvertently running over his lips. The Argentinian snapped his attention away from Andrés chest hair, unable to control the images that raced through his mind. How he longed to rake his fingers through it, tugging on it sharply until the other man moaned.

Phew. Breathe Martín, keep it in your pants.

“Is this some new trend amongst chefs I haven’t heard about? I thought the idea was to _not_ expose skin to naked flame.”

“I don’t remember how they work,” Andrés remarked as he held both sides of his jacket and attempted to draw them together unsuccessfully.

Martín smiled wickedly.

“Allow me.”

He didn’t mean for his voice to come out so low and eager as he stood in front of Andrés, enjoying their closeness. They hadn’t been like this for a while now, not since that night. They hadn’t even spoken about what had happened, well, what had _nearly_ happened, and he’d got the distinct impression that Andrés had been avoiding him. Avoiding that whole can of worms. Martín remembered exactly why he didn’t bother with straight men. De-nial anyone?

They’d been so close as well. He’d been disappointed but not surprised that Andrés had pulled away. It was inevitable really. The Argentinian had tried his best to forget about it. Well maybe not his best, he had tried though, it was just that thoughts of Andrés pressed against him seemed to creep into his mind at the most inopportune moments. What right did any man have to make him feel that good? Bastard. Martín’s forearm muscles bulged as he fiddled with Andrés jacket, they’d definitely seen a lot of action in the past week.

Martín reached for another button and his fingernail accidentally, a freudian slip maybe, grazed Andrés' stomach, causing a sharp intake of breath from the other man.

Interesting.

Martín did it again, deliberately this time. Leisurely. Andrés let out a small moan.

“Sorry did I hurt you?”

Martín asked innocently, knowingly.

Andrés shook his head, eyes half shut.

“That felt…” Andrés voice trailed off.

“Felt good?”

Martín questioned, letting his hand slide across Andrés abdomen again. Andrés nodded, eyelids fluttering slightly while Martín fastened another button. His fingers casually roamed up Andrés torso.

“I didn’t quite catch that response.”

The look of abject pleasure on Andrés face really made it hard to concentrate. Martín rested his knuckles against Andrés chest, marvelling at how he had once again found him so close to the Spaniard, with very little protest from the other man he might add. How many wives did Andrés claim he’d had?

Martín had to remind himself that his friend was high right now. That Laszlo was waiting for them downstairs. That they had a function only a few hours away. That he needed to behave himself.

“Why did you stop?”

Andrés looked down at him and Martín thinks how easy it would be to kiss him, knows how much they’d both enjoy it. He’s tempted, very much so, but this isn’t up to him. He removed his hands from Andrés jacket, leaving the top two buttons undone.

“I think you can figure out the rest.”

Martín dropped his hands and enjoyed the look of slight disappointment that crossed Andrés features. Two can play at that game.

“I like it better when you do it,” Andrés mumbled as he fiddled with the remaining buttons.

“Of course you do,” Martín winked and Andrés smiled in response, then smiled again proudly as he fastened the final button on his jacket.

He wore the look of a proud child who had just taken his first steps. It was oddly endearing.

“Muy bien chef, let’s hope you can cook better than you can dress yourself!”

* * *

Martín praised the lord that Andrés was an organised man. When the three men had set foot in the kitchen the whole place had been immaculate. Everything was neat and tidy, a far cry from how Juan had kept it.

“Ok so, where do we start?” asked Laszlo, unsure whether to direct the question at Andrés or Martín.

“Fuck knows.”

Martín responded while Andrés strolled the kitchen in a daze.

“Andrés any helpful input here?”

Andrés closed his eyes.

“At this moment in time I really have no idea what needs to be done.”

“Brilliant.”

“But I normally write down what I need to do. There is something therapeutic to ordering thoughts with a pen, like the ink is an extension of blood within the veins; it is odd to think that mere shapes on paper can have such a calming effect on the mind.”

“Ok, way too much information again, but surprisingly, that was helpful,” Martín acknowledged as he picked up the notebook on the pass.

Within it was a neatly written prep list, everything on it had been crossed out indicating the tasks were complete. Amazing. That meant that they had food at least. Within the other pages were detailed notes of all the components in each dish, hand drawn sketches of how they were to be plated and even timings of when the food should be cooked and sent.

Martín looked through the fridge. Sure enough everything was neatly labelled and cross referenced with the prep-list. Thank fucking fuck for that.

“I never thought i’d be so grateful for your meticulous nature.”

Andrés was busy running his hands over the surfaces of the work benches, he enjoyed the cool sensation against his skin. He glanced up at Martín’s words.

“I’ve always thought it complimented your slightly more haphazard approach.”

“Haphazard? Moi?” Martín pointed to himself with raised eyebrows.

“Most definitely, but beautifully so.”

Martín blushed slightly unsure of how to respond. Andrés had called him beautiful. Sort of.

He handed Andrés the notebook and watched as the other man begin to caress the pages. Weirdo. Not that Martín was jealous of the pages or anything, now that would be weird.

“I don’t think he’s going to be able to read,” Laszlo commented while Andrés screwed up his face, trying to make the words on the page stop wiggling around.

“I can read them to him though,” Laszlo took the sheets of paper from Martín and scanned through them.

“Wow, these are really thorough.”

“I know right? Its like _Cooking For Dummies_ if they did a Michelin star edition.”

“I very much consider myself a dummy in that department.”

Laszlo did not relish in the idea of being a stand in chef.

“Captain Acid probably isn’t far off that definition either," Martín murmured.

“Just because i’m hallucinating doesn’t mean I can’t hear you.”

Martín pulled a face at Andrés.

“And it’s Admiral Acid if you please, pfft Captain, this isn’t Amateur hour/”

Laszlo flicked through the notes again.

“You know I think we might just be able to pull this off”

Both men smiled.

“What’s this thing for any way?”

Martín and Laszlo looked at the pan in Andrés hand. Oh fucking dear. Both their smiles dropped.

Andrés started laughing uncontrollably.

“You should see your faces.”

He laughed again.

“I may be high but i’m not a total imbecile.”

“Oh yeah? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Andrés squinted at Martín across the room.

‘Well it looks like three, but I can tell from your smug tone that it can only be one, and its bad manners to swear don’t you know?” said Andrés, looking quite pleased with himself.

“Counting to three and dressing yourself? My aren’t you a big boy now,” teased Martín enjoying the chuckling response he elicited from Andrés.

Laszlo cleared his throat nervously.

“Shouldn’t we start cooking or something?”

“Your right Laszlo, I need to go and get set up myself. The guests are going to start arriving in the next hour and a half. Are you going to be alright in here?”

“Si Martín, we’ll manage just fine won’t we Andrés?”

“Just fine,” agreed Andrés as he flicked the blowtorch on, eyes lighting up in delight when a flame shot out of the end.

Laszlo quickly confiscated it.

“We’ll be fine.”

* * *

“This is the dessert?”

Martín looked at the pass laid out with beautiful creations in front of him. He knew Andrés had spent a lot of time on this menu but he’d been blown away with the food tonight, it had been remarkable. The attention to detail was second to none.

“Si, the last course.”

The relief in Laszlo’s voice was evident. He was a man of many talents but a chef he was not and he would be very glad to hang up his apron tonight, not that he’d done any cooking. He had been happy to to fulfil the role of Andrés' helper, reading the chef instructions and reminding him where he was and what he was doing from time to time. There had only been a few minor incidents. A flaming tea towel when the chef had gotten a little _too_ involved listening to the noises the salmon made in the pan, but Laszlo had been quick to stamp it out while Andrés didn’t even seem to notice. There’d also been a period of five minutes or so where Andrés had become so fascinated with the the vibrant colours of the salad garnish that he refused to send the food until he had touched every single salad leaf.

There had been a few other moments of panic on Laszlo’s behalf, mostly at the speed in which Andrés chopped ingredients and the cavalier manner in which he tossed them into the pans, yet he’d served every dish on time and each plate had looked spectacular. Laszlo was fairly certain the chef was in a world of his own, relying solely on the instinct that sensation provided. It had been quite something to witness.

“Andrés, how are you holding up chef?”

Martín placed his hands on the other man’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

Andrés turned to Martín, he opened his mouth to speak but seemed unable to formulate the words. He closed his eyes and tried again.

“Tired. The food hasn’t stopped talking to me all night and I don’t think I can listen to it anymore.”

Martín chuckled lightly. Talking food? Yeah. Say no to drugs kids.

Andrés let his head drop briefly onto Martín’s shoulder.

“The dessert is ready to go.”

“Did it just tell you that?”

Andrés laughed softly against Martín's shoulder.

“You should hear how the ice cream screams under the heat lamps.”

The Argentinian ran a soothing hand through Andrés hair, smiling as the other man moved into his touch.

“No more drugs for you.”

“Tell that to Alberto.”

Laszlo laughed in agreement.

“Do you need a hand running these plates Martín?”

Martín nodded, he’d been rushed off his feet tonight and would take all the help that he could.

“I can help too,” volunteered Andrés.

“I don’t think you’re in an ideal state to be around customers, or carrying things. You’ve done enough tonight Andrés.”

Laszlo tried to be diplomatic. Martín was less so.

“Andrés there’s children out there and you look like a drooling mess.”

“Charming,” Andrés huffed.

“We’ll get these sent out and then you can go and sit upstairs and rest. Just wait here for now, please.”

Martín and Laszlo made short work of delivering the desserts, just knowing that this was the last course to be served gave them both a renewed energy. Once the last plate was placed on the table both men hugged.

“Thank you so much for your help Laszlo.”

“I would say any time, but what I actually mean by that is never again. Please.”

Martín laughed and slapped his friend on the back.

“Come on lets go relieve the poor chef of his kitchen confinement.”

“Si, he’s worked hard tonight.”

They jubilantly entered the kitchen.

“Where did Andrés go?”

“Shit.”

* * *

“You must be the chef.”

Andrés turned to the couple in front of him. They smiled kindly, eyes crinkled with warmth. A soft pink aura glowed around them and the chef felt himself relax. He had been desperate to escape the confines of the kitchen but hadn’t much relished the idea of socialising with guests, now though, he was surprised by how at ease he felt.

“I am indeed the chef, you must be the loving couple! Congratulations on your anniversary, it has been truly an experience cooking for you tonight.”

“No please, the pleasure has been all ours. The food was amazing. Phenomenal. Honestly, that third course of tempura prawns took me right back to when we renewed our vows in Koh Samui. Didn’t it you darling?”

“Oh yes, they were to die for! The whole evening has been a wonderful journey through the years and your restaurant has such a lovely atmosphere. Of course Martín has been an absolute star as well, you two make a perfect pairing.”

Andrés could see Martín now, scanning the room for him presumably. He watched the other man for a moment, enjoying just looking at him. His broad shoulders, rugged jawline, the strength he exuded. There was something comforting about his presence that warmed Andrés all over.

“Yes, he is rather magnificent isn’t he?”

Andrés raised his hand and waved at Martín, who smiled in return as he made his way over to them.

“Andrés there you are.”

Martín appeared beside him. The other man grabbed his arm in a bid to lead him back towards the kitchen. Andrés had no intention of going back there so he planted his feet firmly in place.

“He’s trying to drag me back into the kitchen, he doesn’t trust me around customers you see."

Andrés eyes twinkled.

"I can't see why not, you make for far better conversation than the salmon did.”

The couple laughed while Martín again tried to guide Andrés out of the bar. Andrés leaned into Martíns touch, he threw his arm around the other man’s shoulders so that they both swayed on the spot.

“Oh Martín he can stay! He’s charming! We were just telling Andrés here what a fantastic evening we’ve had.”

“Well I am very glad to hear that,” Martín gave them his best customer smile.

He's not charming. He's completely off his head on Acid lady. Ok so, maybe he was a little charming. But hello inappropriate touching alert.

Martín tried to remain focused but it was getting increasingly difficult with Andrés hand casually rubbing up and down his arm. The chef’s fingers then snaked against Martín’s collar, tracing patterns on his neck. Martín looked to the couple, but they didn’t seem to be phased by Andrés overtly touchy nature. And why should they be? Andrés looked completely at ease, as if he was always groping Martín like this. The chef smiled widely at the guests of honour.

“Can I just say how in love you look? You are both practically glowing.”

The woman blushed. Martín relaxed a little, maybe Andrés _could_ be trusted outside of the kitchen.

“I can see little sparks of pink jumping off your skin.”

Ok, maybe not.

“It is so wonderful having you here but please I insist you must sit down and enjoy your dessert.”

Martín attempted to usher the couple back towards their table.

“Well we are so excited to try it, Andrés could you walk us through it?”

Martín’s eyes widened. Oh god here comes the long rambling spiel about existential doubt and chocolate.

“The sugar-sphere represents the wholeness of your love and the gentle fragility that holds together all the joy to be found inside.”

Andrés pauses.

“But I think it is better for you to experience yourselves as words cannot do it justice.””

Martín was impressed. That was pretty smooth and remarkably succinct.

“Oh marvellous, come along Roberto we simply must try this!”

The couple returned to their table leaving Martín and Andrés at the bar.

“That was surprisingly smooth, I’m amazed you can still string sentences together at this point.”

“I think that was written on my tasting notes somewhere, Laszlo must have read them aloud at least fifty time tonight. It seems my brain may have absorbed some of what was being said.”

“I was worried you were going to start trying to pet them or explain the dessert through some form of interpretive dance.”

Andrés laughed.

“Well I did consider it, but I couldn’t decide if the parfait was a tango or a waltz.”

“Definitely a tango, I’m surprised it didn’t tell you that itself.”

“Ugh, I have no desire to speak to food again. It’s so demanding!”

“Laszlo said you were quite the conversationalist.”

“I’m always in tune with what i’m cooking, but that was something else entirely. An experience to never be repeated and I’m glad that it's over.”

“As am I. You did an amazing job, honestly Andrés, the food was perfect.”

“Gracias, as did you Martín. Thank you for your patience, I’m sure this wasn’t the way either of us envisioned today going.”

Martín chuckled.

“You can say that again.”

Laszlo walked over to the pair of them.

“I can give Martín a hand cleaning down Andrés. You should probably try and rest a little, you’re brain is going to be very drained”

“It feels it, these visuals are relentless.”

“Take another valium and drink some juice.”

“You sound just like my mother.”

Andrés took the pill from Laszlo, he gladly swallowed it down and pulled Laszlo into a tight hug.

“Thank you for your help Laszlo, truly. I would’ve been lost without the pair of you. Martín, I’ll see you upstairs.”

* * *

Andrés had showered and was sat on the sofa with a big glass of orange juice, he stared vacantly into space. His brain was a lot happier now it no longer had to focus. The waves and patterns of his surroundings were slowly starting to fade though he could very much still feel the drugs in his system, at least his body was a lot more relaxed.

He smiled to himself contentedly, trying to remember the last time he ever felt so carefree. It was like all of the little niggles and doubts that he’d been trying to keep a lid on had somehow settled into a blissful state of unimportance.

He was half melted into the sofa, laying on his back staring at the swirls in the ceiling when he heard the door open and a familiar laugh greeted his ears.

“I can’t tell where you end and the sofa begins.”

“Funny, I feel somewhat similar.”

Martín shook his head fondly and poured himself a glass of whiskey, stretching his arms above his head he sank back into the sofa next to Andrés.

Andrés opened one eye, gauging Martín’s position before he shimmied a little closer and placed his head on the other man’s lap.

“Please tell me you don’t think you’re a cat now?” Martín’s tone was amused.

“Still very much a human. A human with a headache the size of the continent and a - ugh, Martín that feels sensational.”

Martín combed his fingers through Andrés hair.

“Maybe being a cat wouldn’t be so bad.”

Andrés nuzzled his head further into Martín’s lap.

“How are the hallucinations?”

“Not quite so vivid. Except for your shirt, which seems to be calling to me. Did you really have to wear something so… alive?”

Andrés had turned his head slightly and was toying with the hem of Martín’s shirt, tugging at the bottom corner.

“Oh because it’s my shirt that is the problem?”

“Yes.”

Martín snorted.

“Are you sure it is nothing to do with you being the most handsy straight man I have ever known?”

Andrés shook his head in indignation.

“It is definitely the shirt.”

Martín sat up and stared at Andrés challengingly.

“So, if I were to change shirts you’d keep your hands to yourself?”

“Well as long as you keep your pretty patterns in the wardrobe then I don’t see why I wouldn’t.”

Martín raised his eyebrows incredulously.

“Ok.”

He stood up and began to unbutton his shirt, watching Andrés eyes as they followed each of his fingers movements in rapt attention. He threw his shirt on the floor and sat back down.

“You’re not putting another shirt on?”

“They’re all too patterned and distracting, I wouldn’t want to hinder your ability to concentrate,” Martín smiled smugly as Andrés mouth hung open. Oh sure, it was the shirt.

Andrés had to suppress the desire to reach out and touch Martín’s bare skin, he refused to give the other man the satisfaction of being right.

“You’re staring at my chest even harder than you were the shirt,” Martín observed casually.

Andrés knew he’s been caught out but couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“Fine, maybe it wasn’t the shirt that monopolised my attention.”

“Maybe?”

Martín puffed his chest out slightly and Andrés bit his lip.

“You know that it’s alright to _want_ to look?” Martín's tone was soft. Gentle.

Andrés nodded, as his eyes took in the other man's bare torso. His stocky build was so different to that of a women, he was so much more muscular and rugged that Andrés found it hard to look anywhere else. His fingers twitched by his side achingly.

“And it’s alright to _want_ to touch me?”

Andrés nodded slightly, but Martín could sense that he was unsure.

“Is that what you want to do Andrés? Because it seemed very much like it the other night”

“Martín..”

“What Andrés? Please tell me what i’m not understanding here, because you are making it really difficult. Friends don’t exactly treat each other like this.”

Andrés sighed, he wasn’t sure his brain had the capacity to deal with this right now, but he knew Martín deserved an explanation.

“I like to be in control Martín.”

“Hey you can be on top if you like.”

Andrés rolled his eyes and Martín put his hands up apologetically.

“Couldn’t resist, please go on.”

“As I was saying, I like to feel in control. I always have done. It’s something I learnt from a young age, how to maintain my emotions, keep them in order. There can be chaos around me and it never bothers me because I am always in control of myself. I’m very good at it in fact, i’ve had years of practice.”

Andrés sighed, he felt the weight of a lifetime of emotions rising within him and he had little energy to hold them back.

“Part of it is out of necessity, it is a useful skill to have in my other line of work, it keeps my focus sharp and unobstructed. I’d never really questioned its drawbacks before..”

“Before Alberto dubbed you Alice and pushed you into Wonderland?”

Andrés laughed softly.

“That’s not what I mean Martín, although yes my sanity did feel a little bit elusive at points today. Funnily enough I think, in his own way, Alberto may have been trying to teach me to let go and 'live a little'.”

“Now I know you’ve lost it if you can see the world from his point of view.”

Both men shared a laugh before Martín pressed on.

“What is it that you are trying so hard to hold onto?”

Andrés eyes are closed and Martín sensed he was choosing his words very carefully.

“It is what is between us that I feel I cannot control, and that terrifies me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Martín we have an extraordinary connection, it is one of the most beautiful things I have ever known and I would do anything to protect it.”

“Protect it from what?”

“From change. Uncertainty. Desire..”

“Desire?”

“Si Martín, it changes everything. I can’t deny how my body responds to you, how my mind responds to you.”

Even now there was a hint of strain in Andrés voice.

“So what, you just try and tell yourself you feel nothing? You ignore it?”

“I don’t know, i’m not really sure that i’ve figured out how to deal with it”

“No shit.”

Andrés sighed.

“I’ve been married five times Martín and the pain of damaging those relationships would surely be nothing compared to ruining what we have here.”

“Who says we’d ruin anything?”

“Past experience, things would only get complicated”

“You don’t think you’re already making it a little complicated? You are the very definition of hot and cold.”

Andrés had the decency to look apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t react well.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“I just don’t know how to make sense of it. I have never experienced _this_ before.”

“I do tend to have the effect on men.”

Andrés playfully slapped Martín on the leg and leaned back against the sofa, he breathed in heavily and placed his head in his hands.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow? I don’t think my brain can deal with anything else today.”

Martín nodded, taking pity on the other man he gently pulled Andrés head back into his lap. Andrés let out a content sigh as Martín’s fingers resumed their combing of his hair.

“I’m going to hold you to that you know.”

A soft smile played across Andrés lips.

“I know you will.”

* * *

Andrés slowly opened his eyes to the morning light. Who let that in? His face was still smooshed into the sofa so assumed he must’ve slept the night there, though it doesn’t feel as if he has slept at all. In his whole life. Ugh. Today was going to be painful.

“Well good morning my little psychedelic”

Martín was far too chipper as he placed an espresso in front of Andrés. The Argentinian was clearly taking some amusement in the pained expression on Andrés face.

Andrés took the coffee with a grimace, he shuffled into a sitting position so that he could take a sip. Fuck that was delicious, he only needed another fifty more and he’d be good to go. He slumped back against the sofa and nodded his appreciation at Martín.

“What time is it?”

“Almost lunch time.”

It felt like five AM. Andrés attempted to hold himself in a sitting position but swiftly gave up in favour of remaining horizontal. That felt much better.

“I don’t think i’ve ever been this tired in my life.”

“Laszlo mentioned that might be the case. He said you’d need a lot of rest and fluids.”

“And someone to look after me?”

Andrés pouted.

“No, he didn’t mention anything about that. Nothing about an exceptionally handsome Argentinian who _would_ have happily looked after you all day had you not been ignoring him for the past couple of weeks.”

Martín doesn’t look angry, just amused.

“I wasn’t ignoring you, I was just preoccupied”

Andrés fumbled for words. His tired brain not as sharp as he wished for it to be.

“Preoccupied with desire perhaps?”

Martín’s eyes twinkled, clearly enjoying his role as the tormenter.

Andrés remembered his words of last night and finds that he is oddly comfortable with what he revealed to Martín. In fact he felt like a weight had been lifted.

He chuckled.

“Preoccupied with writing menus.”

Martín snorted disbelievingly.

“And don’t you think for a second that these past few weeks haven’t been a torment for me either.”

Martín was surprised at that , he’d expected to have to goad Andrés some more and even then he’d doubted that the man would admit to anything of the sort.

“Ah, so you have been thinking about it?”

“How could I not.”

Martín wiggled his eyebrows.

“Well I am a man of many talents.”

“That doesn’t change anything Martín. I meant what I said. I am not prepared to sacrifice our friendship and what we have to fan the flames of desire and watch the whole thing burn around us.”

“I’ve be thinking about that, and I have a suggestion”

Andrés cannot keep the intrigue out of his gaze.

“Go on?”

“What if we separate the desire from our friendship?”

“What?”

Andrés furrowed his brow as he tried to make sense of Martín’s words.

“Andrés I don’t want a relationship. Look how much time we spend here. This place is my life and I really don’t have the time or inclination to bother with anything more than that. Besides, relationships aren’t my strength. I’m the king of one night stands and not calling back.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well you’re hardly captain successful in the love department either. Mr Five Divorces. What makes you think that this has to be some serious life altering event? Is it honestly just marriage or nothing with you?”

Andrés laughed.

“What i’m saying is that we can enjoy each other, explore our desire, and not have it effect our relationship.”

“Don’t they call that being friends with benefits?”

“Exactly. We can choose the benefits and leave the rest of the other stuff alone. I don’t really have a whole heap of friends, let alone anyone I get on with like I do you, so i’m not in a rush to ruin that either.”

Andrés nodded, it was a valid point.

“That being said, I haven’t had sex in a really long time and Jesus Christ if you’re going to keep touching me inappropriately you’d better make good on that promise.”

The Spaniard laughed, Martín obviously wan’t aware of how close he’d been to making good on that promise. It was a thought that had been circling his mind for some time now.

“A fair point. So how do you propose we keep this ‘separate’?”

“Have you never watched any rom-coms?”

Andrés gave him a blank look. What did this man take him for?

Martín rolled his eyes as if Andrés had been living under a rock for his whole life.

"It’s simple. No cuddling after, no sleeping in each others beds, no overblown declarations of love, none of the _feelings_ sjot that confuses everything. Just straight up sex. Well actually there’s very little straight about it, but you get the picture.”

“I see.”

Andrés did get the picture, it involved Martín bent over the bar shouting his name and it wasn’t the first time that image had appeared in his head.

“And then if either of us wants to start seeing someone else, we just call it quits. Done. Finito. Boom boom ciao. All good in the hood. Bros before hoes. Etcetera etcetera. Make sense?”

“That easy?”

“Oh baby you know I can be easy if you want me to be”

Martín made his voice low, seductive, he walked over to where Andrés was sat and ran his finger under the other man’s jaw line. Andrés swallowed deeply.

“But you had a busy night, and Laszlo said you need rest.”

Martín skipped away from Andrés and the other man cursed under his breath. If he hadn’t been so tired he would wipe that smug look off his face.

“I’ll let you consider my offer while I go and have some stern words with my very questionable father figure about how to treat guests coming for tea. Would you like me to pass on your regards?”

“Maybe a few swift taps over the head with the largest cookbook he owns and we’ll be even.”

“I can do that.”

* * *

“I thought you’d be in bed,” were Martín’s first words as he returned home, surprised to see Andrés still up after the previous nights antics.

“I slept a lot of the day.”

His sleep had been peppered with dreams of Martín. Naked Martín. On his hands and knees, though Andrés didn’t feel the need to reveal that just yet.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like a new man,” Andrés danced over to Martín to prove his point, he took the bottle of wine from his hand and whistled lowly.

“This looks _nice_.”

“A token of apology from the crazy old bastard who drugged you.”

Andrés laughed and put the bottle down.

“Do you want a glass?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

 _I bet you wouldn’t_ thought Andrés as he poured two glasses and passed one to Martín. They clinked them together in cheers.

“To being back in the real world.”

"I'll drink to that."

Martín sipped his wine, damn that was good. The men stood in comfortable silence within the confines of the small kitchen, neither making the effort to move to the lounge. There wasn't a tension in the air per se, but that was definitely a certain charge to be felt.

Martín leaned his back against the counter and was about to speak when Andrés beat him to it.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.”

“Oh?”

Martín tried to keep his voice even, but there was a fritter of uncertain excitement in his short response. Andrés heard it, of course he did, the smug bastard.

“Yes, thinking about it _long and hard_.”

Andrés eyes are dark and mischievous, they glint at the surprise that was slowly registering across Martín’s features. He placed his glass down and moved towards Martín slowly, purposefully, stopping just an inch in front of him. He took Martín’s glass from his hand and placed it on the counter.

“What exactly have you been thinking about?” asked Martín, his words had become caught in the back of his throat and the breathless sound registered somewhere between Andrés thighs.

“I was thinking about how good your skin felt under my fingers,” Andrés moved a little closer, his thumb traced circles on the inside of Martín’s wrist. Martín’s eyelids fluttered shut.

“Mmm yes, you did a pretty terrible job at keeping your hands to yourself.”

Andrés let out a small laugh as he pressed closer to Martín, their chests almost touching.

“Well you make it so difficult, my hands have a mind of their own when it comes to you.”

His fingers found their way under Martín’s shirt and rested on his hip bones. Thumbs circled the flesh and Martín whimpered softly.

“Then I was thinking,” Andrés leaned to whisper in Martín’s ear “no I was _imagining_ , how your skin would feel under my tongue.”

Martín let out a low moan as Andrés lips hovered over his neck. This had been the last thing he had expected to come home to.

“Fuck.”

Martín let out a sharp hiss as Andrés teeth made contact with his skin. The Spaniard held his hips in place while he sucked slowly on his neck. Martín writhed beneath the other man’s grip, which only caused Andrés to bite down harder. Martín moaned as he felt himself growing harder, his hips bucked wildly against Andrés, making the other man to grunt in pleasure.

Andrés continued to draw his tongue along Martín’s neck while removing his hands from the Argentinian's hips. His fingers busied themselves slowly unbuttoning Martín’s shirt, leaving the other man's torso fully exposed. He ran his hands over Martín’s bare chest then dipped his head so that he could flick his tongue across Martín’s nipple.

The Argentinain threw his head back and groaned loudly.

“Fuck Andrés, are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

Andrés grinned seductively, drawing himself level with the other man. Martín couldn’t take it any longer, losing his patience he grabbed Andrés collar and pulled the Spaniard against him, crashing their lips together.

Andrés moaned as Martín’s tongue expertly explored his mouth. This was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. His own tongue fought back as their bodies ground against one another. Martín broke the kiss momentarily.

“Take your shirt off _right now_ or i’m ripping it off.”

Andrés eagerly obliged, aroused by the soun of Martín’s voice, thick with desire. Once he’d removed his shirt he was rewarded with the sensation of Martín’s skin against his.

“That feels amazing,” Andrés voice was like gravel as he planted bruising kisses up Martín’s neck.

The other man smiled.

“We haven’t even gotten started yet,” Martín’s fingers trailed the waistband of Andrés trousers teasingly, he edged them just beneath the edge of his boxers, waiting for Andrés to moan, before returning them to the Spaniard’s chest. He scratched his nails across Andrés ribs.

“I seem to remember you liked that yesterday.”

“Mmmm I think I prefer it today.”

Andrés fingers roamed Martín’s back as he discarded the Argentinian’s shirt completely. His hands slipped effortlessly lower, they snuck beneath Martín’s jeans and stopped on his ass. Andrés squeezed it firmly, enjoying how the muscles tensed under his touch, how tight he could pull Martín against him. Both men revelled in the sensation of their bodies grinding together, they kissed hungrily. Martín pushed Andrés towards his bedroom as they tried to navigate without breaking apart. Andrés kicked the door open behind him and staggered back into the room, he fell back on the bed.

Martín stood over him, taking a moment to embrace the sight of Andrés in all his bare chested glory. His eyes were dark with pleasure and he looked absolutely ravishing as he gazed up at Martín, arms casually folded behind his head.

“Enjoying the view?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Martín lay next to Andrés on the bed, he kissed him again and then drew his eyes down to Andrés waist. The sizeable bulge in his trousers was definitely in need of some attention. He placed his hand over the top of it, squeezing gently. Andrés couldn’t contain his moan of pleasure as he moved against Martín’s hand.

Martín slowly grazed his finger tips over Andrés top button, taking as much time as he could to unfasten it.

“You’re such a tease,” Andrés moaned as tried to pull Martín against him.

“Uh uh.”

The Argentinian grabbed his hands.

“Hands behind your head.”

Andrés obliged, willing Martín to continue. He watched in fascinated pleasure as the other man deftly unzipped his fly, unable to believe quite how incredible such a small act could feel. Andrés eyes rolled into the back of his head when Martín’s hand finally slid into his boxers. Jesus Christ. He moaned Martín’s name loudly. Martín responded to his groans, expert fingers stroked up and down Andrés length. The Spaniard was certain he’d never been this hard in his whole life.

Andrés fought to keep his own hands behind his head, as Martín gripped and squeezed, he was unable to contain his cries of pleasure. The sounds delighted Martín, he hadn’t expected Andrés to be so vocal.

“Like that do you?”

“Mmmm,” Andrés could only nod in response, it seemed his brain had forgotten how articulate itself.

Martín used his other hand to pull Andrés boxers down, finally freeing his cock.

“Is this what you’ve been thinking about all day?”

Martín’s thumb rubbed over Andrés' tip, the circle motion caused Andrés thighs to shake with self restraint.

“Uhhh, fuck Martín.”

Andrés hips bucked wildly as Martín gripped his cock tightly.

“Oh so like a firm touch?”

Martín squeezed again and Andrés growled in response.

“Is this how you touch yourself? I bet it is. I bet you take your time don’t you?”

Martín slowed his movements.

“You’ve done this to yourself thinking of me haven’t you?”

“Uhhh,” Andrés was squirming under Martín’s control. He could feel himself getting closer to the edge.

Martín stopped.

“I’m going to need words Andrés”

“Yes, fuck. Yes, I’ve done this. I’ve touched myself thinking of you.”

Martín’s dick twitched at Andrés words, and Andrés could tell from the look on his face just how much he enjoyed hearing that. Well, he could happily obliged him further.

“Do you want me to tell you about it Martín?” Andrés rolled the name of his lips.

“Do you want to hear about how I lay in my bed at night and listened to your groans hmm? These walls are thin and you are far from quiet querido.”

Martín groaned in surprise.

“I didn’t know you could hear me.”

Andrés smiled seductively and rolled on top of Martín, pinning his hands behind his head.

“Oh I heard you. Every night.”

Andrés emphasised the words with thrusted hips. Martín grunted as he felt Andrés hard cock pressing against his own.

“I heard you, moaning, panting, a little like you are now querido.”

Andrés moved against Martín until the pressure in the Argentinian’s pants became unbearable.

“Take off your pants.”

Martín obeyed gladly, he took the time to stroke his own cock once his pants were finally removed.

“That's it querido, show me. Show me how you touched yourself for me.”

Martín wrapped his fingers around the shaft and moaned in pleasure at the sight of Andrés watching him. Oh he would give him a show alright. He thrust into his own hand, panting heavily. He used his free hand to tug on his balls.

“Oh so that’s how you like it?”

Andrés used one hand to gently massage Martín’s balls while he stroked himself with the other. Martín’s moaned deeply, he closed his eyes and quickened the pace of his hand.

Then he felt Andrés fingers walking up his body, they stopped at his lips. Martín eagerly took them into his mouth. Sucking deeply in a way made Andrés cock jerk against his leg.

“You’re really good at that.”

Martín is about to quip that he can show Andrés just how good at that he is when Andrés fingers had found their way back down his body. Was he actually going to-

“Fuckkkk.”

Martín bit down on Andrés shoulder as he slid a finger inside of him.

“That feels amazing.”

Martín moved up and down on Andrés finger, encouraging him to add a second. Martín moaned deeply as he relaxed into Andrés touch.

“I want to be inside you.”

The other man practically growled into Martín’s ear and Martín almost came right there.

“Lube, condoms, bedside draw.”

He could barely get the words out as Andrés continued his steady rhythm, then he felt slickness around his hole as Andrés added a third finger. Fuck he was tight, it reminded Martín just how long it had been since he’d had sex.

If he didn’t stop he was going to cum right now.

He stopped Andrés hand and sat up in front of him. He gently pushed Andrés so he was sat back on his knees, cock stood proudly to attention. With lube on his fingertips Martín took it in both hands, massaging the entire length. Andrés rocked in pleasure, softly murmuring Martín’s name.

Martín stopped.

“Are you sure about this?”

Andrés looked at Martín with a passionate hunger.

“Certain. On your knees.”

The command held an odd tenderness to it. Martín turned away from Andrés. He felt the tip of Andrés cock at his entrance and tried to relax as Andrés pushed slowly into him.

Behind him Andrés let out an ungodly moan.

“You’re so tight.”

Martín couldn’t even respond as he focused on relaxing, he’d been worried that Andrés would rush, but the other man was patiently taking his time. When Andrés is fully inside him he stops and holds himself there for a second, both men completely overwhelmed by the sensation.

Andrés sucked slowly on Martín’s shoulder before he slowly started to move in and out. His movements were achingly slow. How on earth did he have that much self restraint?

“Andrés fuck me harder,” Martín practically begs.

“So impatient.”

Andrés pulls almost fully out before sliding back into Martín slowly.

“Fuckkkk Andrés.”

“Say please.”

Smug prick.

“Fuck you.”

Andrés laughed.

“I think the phrase you’re looking for is fuck me.”

Andrés grabbed Martín’s balls and started squeezing them. Martín buried his head in the pillow, pleasure almost overcoming him.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

Andrés stopped moving and Martín groaned in frustration.

“Please Andrés fuck me harder.”

Andrés started moving in and out quicker and Martín wasn’t aware of anything but the feeling of pleasure building inside of him. Andrés was panting in time with his thrusts and Martín could hear how close he was getting.

“Fuck,” Martín gasped as Andrés reached around and started jerking him off.

“I’m going to cum,” Martín moaned as Andrés gripped his cock. His whole body tensed and he came in Andrés hand. The effect it had was almost instant on Andrés. He gripped Martín’s hips tightly as his body spasmed, he groaned loudly as he took one final thrust and let his full weight lay ontop of Martín.

They stayed like that for a moment until Andrés pulled slowly out of Martín, he lay down beside him panting heavily.

“Fuck.”

Both men said it in unison and laughed.

“That was..”

“Mind blowing?”

Andrés nodded and started at the ceiling. He slowly got up and out of bed.

Martín willed away the stab of disappointment that gnawed at his stomach.

“Wow you’ve really got the whole not staying in each others bed part down,” he tried to joke lightly.

“Actually I was just going to get our wine. I may not be sleeping in your bed tonight Martín but that doesn’t mean i’m done with the pleasure of your company this evening.”

Andrés looked Martín up and down appreciatively.

“Far from it.”

Martín grinned hungrily.

“Bring the bottle.”


End file.
